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THE CONFESSION OF 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


« 



























































































































THE CONFESSION OF 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


By ALFRED DE MUSSET 

\\ 

TRANSLATED BY KENDALL WARREN 


C'Qf'iti'+ri 

3 


<y 

CHICAGO 

CHARLES H. SERGEL AND COMPANY 



3 




Co 


Copyright, 1892, 

By Charles H. Sergel & Co. 


% 


THE SERGEL PRESS 


THE CONFESSION 


OF A 

CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


CHAPTER I 

Before the history of a life can be written, 
the life must be lived; so it is not my life that 
I am writing. 

Having been attacked in early youth by an 
abominable moral malady, 1 recount what has 
happened to me during three years. If I were 
the only victim of this disease, I would say 
nothing, but as there are many others who suf- 
fer from the same evil, I write for them, al- 
though I am not sure that they will pay any 
attention to me ; in case my warning is un- 
heeded, I shall still have gathered the fruit of 
my effort in having cured myself, and, like the 
fox caught in a trap, I shall have eaten off my 
captive foot. 


7 


8 


THE CONFESSION OF 


CHAPTER II 

During the wars of the Empire, while the 
husbands and brothers were in Germany, the 
anxious mothers brought forth an ardent, pale, 
and nervous generation. Conceived between 
two battles, educated amidst the noises of war, 
thousands of children looked about them with 
a sombre eye while testing their flaccid mus- 
cles. From time to time their blood-drenched 
fathers would appear, raise them on their gold- 
laced bosoms, then place them on the ground 
and remount their horses. 

The life of Europe was centered in one man ; 
all were trying to fill their lungs with the air 
which he had breathed. Every year France 
presented that man with three hundred thou- 
sand of her youth ; it was the impost paid to 
Caesar, and, without that troop behind him, he 
could not follow his fortune. It was the escort 
he needed that he might traverse the world, 
and then fall in a little valley in a deserted 
island, under the weeping willow. 

Never had there been so many sleepless 
nights as in the time of that man ; never had 
there been seen, hanging over the ramparts of 
the cities, such a nation of desolate mothers ; 
never was there such a silence about those who 
spoke of death. And yet there was never such 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


9 


joy, such life, such fanfares of war, in all hearts. 
Never was there such pure sunlight as that 
which dried all this blood. God made the sun 
for this man, they said, and they called it the 
Sun of Austerlitz. But he made this sunlight 
himself with his ever-booming cannons which 
dispelled all clouds but those which succeed 
the day of battle. 

It was this air of the spotless sky, where 
shone so much glory, where glistened so many 
swords, that the youth of\the time breathed. 
They well knew that they were destined to the 
hecatomb; but they believed that Murat was 
invulnerable, and the emperor had been seen 
to cross a bridge where so many bullets whistled 
that they wondered if he could die. And even 
if one must die, what did it matter? Death 
itself was so beautiful, so noble, so illustrious, 
in his battle-scarred purple! It borrowed the 
color of hope, it reaped so many ripening har- 
vests that .it became young, and there was no 
more old age. All the cradles of France, as 
all its tombs, were armed with shield and buck- 
ler; there were no more old men, there were 
corpses or demi-gods. 

Nevertheless the immortal emperor stood 
one day on a hill watching seven nations en- 
gaged in mutual slaughter; as he did not know 
whether he would be master of all the world or 
only half, Azrael passed along, touched him 


IO 


THE CONFESSION OF 


with the tip of his wing, and pushed him into 
the Ocean. At the noise of his fall, the dying 
powers sat up in their beds of pain ; and stealth- 
ily advancing with furtive tread, all the royal 
spiders made the partition of Europe, and the 
purple of Caesar became the frock of Harlequin. 

Just as the traveler, sure of his way, hastens 
night and day through rain and sunlight, regard- 
less of vigils or of dangers ; but when he has 
reached his home and seated himself before the 
fire, he is seized upon by a feeling of extreme 
lassitude and can hardly drag himself to his 
bed : thus France, the widow of Caesar, sud- 
denly felt her wound. She fell through sheer 
exhaustion, and lapsed into a sleep so profound 
that her old kings, believing her dead, wrapped 
about her a white shroud. The old army, its 
hair whitened in service, returned exhausted 
with fatigue, and the hearths of deserted castles 
sadly flickered into life. 

Then the men of the Empire, who had been 
through so much, who had lived in such carn- 
age, kissed their emaciated wives and spoke of 
their first love ; they looked into the fountains 
of their natal prairies and found themselves so 
old, so mutilated that they bethought themselves 
of their sons, in order that they might close their 
eyes in peace. They asked where they were ; 
the children came from the schools, and, seeing 
neither sabres, nor cuirasses, neither infantry 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


ii 


nor cavalry, they asked in turn where were their 
fathers. They were told that the war was ended, 
that Caesar was dead, and that the portraits of 
Wellington and of Bliicher were suspended in 
the ante-chambers of the consulats and the em- 
bassies, with these two words beneath : Salva- 
tor ib us mundi. 

Then there seated itself on a world in ruins 
an anxious youth. All the children were drops 
of burning blood which had inundatedthe earth ; 
they were born in the bosom of war, for war. 
For fifteen years they had dreamed of the snows 
of Moscow and of the sun of the pyramids. 
They had not gone beyond their native towns; 
but they were told that through each gate of 
these towns lay the road to a capital of Europe. 
They had in their heads all the world ; they 
beheld the earth, the sky, the streets and the 
highways ; all these were empty, and the bells 
of parish churches resounded faintly in the dis- 
tance. 

Pale phantoms shrouded in black robes, 
slowly traversed the country ; others knocked 
at the doors of houses, and, when admitted 
drew from their pockets large well-worn docu- 
ments with which they drove out the tenants. 
From every direction came men still trembling 
with the fear which had seized them when they 
fled twenty years before. All began to urge 
their claims, disputing loudly and crying for 


12 


THE CONFESSION OF 


help; it was strange that a single death should 
attract so many crows. 

The king of France was on his throne, look- 
ing here and there to see if he could perchance 
find a bee in the royal tapestry. Some held 
out their hats, and he gave them money ; others 
showed him a crucifix and he kissed it ; others 
contented themselves with pronouncing in his 
ear great names of powerful families, and he 
replied to these by inviting them into his grand 1 
salle, where the echoes were more sonorous ; 
still others showed him their old cloaks, when 
they had carefully effaced the bees and to these 
he gave new apparel. 

The children saw all this, thinking that the 
spirit of Caesar would soon land at Cannes and 
breathe upon this larva; but the silence was 
unbroken and they saw floating in the sky only 
the paleness of the lily. When these children 
spoke of glory, they were answered : “Become 
priests;” when they spoke of hope, of love, of 
power, of life: “Become priests.” 

And yet there mounted the rostrum a man 
who held in his hand a contract between the 
king and the people ; he began by saying that 
glory was a beautiful thing, and ambition and 
war as well ; but there was something still more 
beautiful and it was called liberty. 

The children raised their heads and remem- 
bered that their grandfathers had spoken thus. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


i3 


They remembered having seen in certain ob- 
scure corners of the paternal home mysterious 
busts with long marble hair and a Latin in- 
scription ; they remembered seeing their grand- 
sires shake their heads and speak of a stream 
of blood more terrible than that of the emperor. 
There was something in that word liberty that 
made their hearts beat with the memory of a 
terrible past and the hope of a glorious future. 

They trembled at the word ; but returning to 
their homes they encountered on the street 
three panniers which were being borne to Cla- 
mart ; there were, within, three young men who 
had pronounced that word liberty too distinctly. 

A strange smile hovered on their lips at that 
sad sight ; but other speakers, mounted on the 
rostrum, began to publicly estimate what ambi- 
tion had cost and how very dear was glory; 
they pointed out the horror of war and called 
the hecatombs butcheries. And they spoke so 
often and so long that all human illusions, like 
the trees in autumn, fell leaf by leaf about 
them, and those who listened passed their hands 
over their foreheads as though awakened from 
a feverish dream. 

Some said: ‘The emperor has fallen because 
the people wished no more of him;” others 
added: “The people wished the king; no, 
liberty; no, reason; no, religion; no, the Eng- 
lish constitution ; no absolutism ;" and the last 


14 


THE CONFESSION OF 


one said: "No, none of these things, but re- 
pose. ” 

Three elements entered into the life which 
offered itself to these children: behind them a 
past forever destroyed, moving uneasily on its 
ruins with all the fossils of centuries of abso- 
lutism ; before them the aurora of an immense 
horizon, the first gleams of the future; and be- 
tween these two worlds — something like the 
Ocean which separates the old world from 
Young America, something vague and floating, 
a troubled sea filled with wreckage, traversed 
from time to time by some distant sail or some 
ship breathing out a heavy vapor ; the present, 
in a word which separates the past from the 
future, which neither the one nor the other, 
which resemble both, and where one can not 
know whether, at each step, one is treading on 
a seed or a piece of refuse. 

It was in this chaos that choice must be 
made ; this was the aspect presented to chil- 
dren full of spirit and of audacity, sons of the 
Empire and grandsons of the Revolution. 

As for the past, they would none of it, they 
had no faith in it ; the future, they loved it, 
but how? As Pygmalion Galatea: it was for 
them a lover in marble and they waited for the 
breath of life to animate that breast, for the 
blood to color those veins. 

There remained then the present, the spirit 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


i5 


of the time, angel of the dawn who is neither 
night or day; they found him seated on a lime 
sack filled with bones, clad in the mantle of 
egoism, and shivering in terrible cold. The 
anguish of death entered into the soul at the 
sight of that spectre, half mummy and half foe- 
tus; they approached it as the traveler who is 
shown at Strasburg the daughter of an old 
count of Sarvenden, embalmed in her bride’s 
dress : that childish skeleton makes one shud- 
der, for her slender and livid hand wears the 
wedding ring and her head falls into dust in 
the midst of orange blossoms. 

As upon the approach of a tempest there 
passes through the forests a terrible sound 
which makes all the trees shudder, to which 
profound silence succeeds, thus had Napoleon, 
in passing, shaken the world ; kings felt their 
crowns vacillate in the storm and, raising their 
hands to steady them, they found only their 
hair, bristling with terror. The pope had trav- 
eled three hundred leagues to bless him in the 
name of God and to crown him with the dia- 
dem ; but Napoleon had taken it from his hands. 
Thus everything trembled in that dismal forest 
of old Europe; then silence succeeded. 

It is said that when you meet a mad dog if 
you keep quietly on your way without turning, 
the dog will merely follow you a short distance 
growling and showing his teeth; but if you 


16 THE CONFESSION OF 

allow yourself to be frightened into a movement 
of terror, if you but make a sudden step, he 
will leap at your throat and devour you; when 
the first bite has been taken there is no escap- 
ing him. 

In European history it has often happened 
that a sovereign has made that movement of 
terror and his people have devoured him; but 
if one had done it, all had not done it at the 
same time, that is to say, one king had disap- 
peared, but not all royal majesty. Before the 
sword of Napoleon majesty made this move- 
ment, this gesture which loses everything, and 
not only majesty but religion, nobility, all pow- 
er both human and divine. 

Napoleon dead, human and divine power 
were re-established, but belief in them no longer 
existed. A terrible danger lurks in the knowl- 
edge of what is possible, for the mind always 
goes farther. It is one thing to say : "That may 
be” and another thing to say : "That has been ;” 
it is the first bite of the dog. 

The deposition of Napoleon was the last 
flicker of the lamp of despotism; it destroyed 
and it parodied kings as Voltaire the Holy 
Scripture. And after him was heard a great 
noise: it was the stone of St. Helena which 
had just fallen on the ancient world. Imme- 
diately there appeared in the heavens the cold 
star of reason, and its rays, like those of the 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


*7 


goddess of the night, shedding light without 
heat, enveloped the world in a livid shroud. 

There had been those who hated the nobles, 
who cried out against priests, who conspired 
against kings; abuses and prejudices had been 
attacked ; but all that was not so great a nov- 
elty as to see a smiling people. If a noble or 
a priest or a sovereign passed, the peasants who 
had made war possible began to shake their 
heads and say: “Ah! when we saw this man 
in such a time and place he wore a different 
face.” And when the throne and altar were 
mentioned, they replied: “They are made of 
four planks of wood ; we have nailed them to- 
gether and torn them apart." And when some 
one said : “People, you have recovered from the 
errors which led you astray ; you have recalled 
your kings and your priests,” they replied : 
"We have nothing to do with those prattlers.” 
And when some one said: “People, forget the 
past, work and obey,” they arose from their 
seats and a dull rumbling could be heard. It 
was the rusty and notched sabre in the corner 
of the cottage chimney. Then they hastened to 
add : "Then keep quiet at least ; if no one harms 
you do not seek to harm.” Alas! they were 
content with that. 

But youth was not content. It is certain 
that there are in man two occult powers en- 
gaged in a death struggle : The one, clear- 


18 THE CONFESSION OF 

sighted and cold, is concerned with reality, 
calculation, weight, and judges the past ; the 
other is athirst for the future and eager for the 
unknown. When passion sways man, reason 
follows him weeping and warning him of his 
danger; but when man listens to the voice of 
reason, when he stops at her request and says : 
“What a fool I am; where am I going?” pas- 
sion calls to him : “And must 1 die?” 

A feeling of extreme uneasiness began to 
ferment in all young hearts. Condemned to 
inaction by the powers which governed the 
world, delivered to vulgar pedants of every 
kind, to idleness and to ennui , the youth saw 
the foaming billows which they had prepared 
to meet, subside. All these gladiators glisten- 
ing with oil felt in the bottom of their souls 
an insupportable wretchedness. The richest 
became libertines; those of moderate fortune 
followed some profession and resigned them- 
selves to the sword or to the robe. The poor- 
est gave themselves up with cold enthusiasm 
to great thoughts, plunged into the frightful 
sea of aimless effort. As human weakness seeks 
association and as men are herds by nature, 
politics became mingled with it. There were 
struggles with the garde du corps on the steps 
of the legislative assembly; at the theatre Tal- 
ma wore a perruque which made him resemble 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


i9 


Caesar; every one flocked to the burial of a 
liberal deputy. 

But of the members of the two parties there 
was not one who, upon returning home, did 
not bitterly realize the emptiness of his life 
and the feebleness of his hands. 

While life outside was so colorless and so 
mean, the interior life of society assumed a 
sombre aspect of silence ; hypocrisy ruled in 
all departments of conduct ; English ideas of 
devotion, gayety even, had disappeared. Per- 
haps Providence was already preparing new 
ways, perhaps the herald angel of future society 
was already sowing in the hearts of women the 
seeds of human independence. But it is cer- 
tain that a strange thing suddenly happened ; 
in all the salons of Paris the men passed to 
one side and the women to the other ; and 
thus, the one clad in white like a bride and 
the other in black like an orphan began to take 
measurements with the eye. 

Let us not be deceived: that vestment of 
black which the men of our time wear is a ter- 
rible symbol; before coming to this the armor 
must have fallen piece by piece and the em- 
broidery flower by flower. Human reason has 
overthrow all illusions ; but it bears in itself 
sorrow, in order that it may be consoled. 

The customs of students and artists, those 
customs so free, so beautiful, so full of youth, 


20 


THE CONFESSION OF 


began to experience the universal change. Men 
in taking leave of women whispered the word 
which wounds to the death : contempt. They 
plunged into the dissipation of wine and cour- 
tesans. Students and artists did the same ; love 
was treated as glory and religion : it was an 
old illusion. The grisette , that class so dreamy, 
so romantic, so tender, and so sweet in love, 
abandoned herself to the counting-house and 
to the shop. She was poor and no one loved 
her ; she wanted dresses and hats and she sold 
herself. Oh ! misery! the young man who ought 
to love her, whom she loved, who used to take 
her to the woods of Verrieres and Romainville, 
to the dances on the lawn, to the suppers under 
the trees ; he who used to talk with her as she 
sat near the lamp in the rear of the shop on 
the long winter evenings ; he who shared her 
crust of bread moistened with the sweat of her 
brow, and her love at once sublime and poor; 
he, that same man, after having abandoned her, 
finds her after a night of orgie, pale and leaden, 
forever lost, with hunger on her lips and prosti- 
tution in her heart. 

About this time two poets, whose genius 
was second only to that of Napoleon, conse- 
crated their lives to the work of collecting all 
the elements of anguish and of grief scattered 
over the universe. Goethe, the patriarch of a 
new literature, after having painted in Werther 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


21 


the passion which leads to suicide, traced in 
his “Faust” the most somber human character 
which has ever represented evil and unhappi- 
ness. His writings began to pass from Ger 
many into France. From his studio, surrounded 
by pictures and statues, rich, happy and at ease, 
he watched with a paternal smile his gloomy 
creations marching in dismal procession across 
the frontiers of France. Byron replied to him 
by a cry of grief which made Greece tremble, 
and suspended Manfred over the abyss as if 
nothingness had been the answer of the hideous 
enigma with which he enveloped him. 

Pardon me! Oh, great poets! who are now 
but ashes and who sleep in peace! Pardon me, 
you are demi-gods and I am only a child who 
suffers. But while writing all this I can not 
help cursing you. Why did you not sing of 
the perfume of flowers, of the voices of nature, 
of hope and of love, of the vine and the sun, 
of the azure heavens and of beauty. You must 
have understood life, you must have suffered, 
and the world was crumbling to pieces about 
you, you wept on its ruins and you despaired ; 
and your mistresses were false; your friends 
caluminated, your compatriots misunderstood ; 
and your heart was empty; death was in your 
eyes, and you were the Colossi of grief. But 
tell me, you noble Goethe, was there no more 
consoling voice in the religious murmur of 


22 


THE CONFESSION OF 


your old German forests? You for whom beau- 
tiful poesy was the sister of science, could you 
with their aid find in immortal nature no 
healing plant for the heart of their favorite? 
You who were a pantheist, and antique poet of 
Greece, a lover of sacred forms, could you not 
put a little honey in the beautiful vases you 
made ; you who had only to smile and allow the 
bees to come to your lips? And thou, thou 
Byron, hadst thou not near Ravenna, under thy 
orange trees of Italy, under thy beautiful Vene- 
tian sky, near thy dear Adriatic, hadst thou not 
thy well beloved? Oh, God! I who speak to 
you and who am only a feeble child, I have per- 
haps known sorrows that you have never suf- 
fered, and yet I believe and I hope, and yet I 
bless God. 

When English and German ideas passed thus 
over our heads there ensued disgust and mourn- 
ful silence, followed by a terrible convulsion. 
For to formulate general ideas is to change 
saltpetre into powder, and the Homeric brain 
of the great Goethe had sucked up, as an alem- 
bic, all the juice of the forbidden fruit. Those 
who did not read him did not believe it, knew 
nothing of it. Poor creatures! The explosion 
carried them away like grains of dust into the 
abyss of universal doubt. 

It was a degeneration of all things of heaven 
and of earth that might be termed disenchant- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


23 


ment,or if you preferred, despair; as if humanity 
in lethargy had been pronounced dead by those 
who held its place. Like a soldier who was 
asked: "In what do you believe?" and who 
replied : "In myself. " Thus the youth of France, 
hearing that question, replied: “In nothing." 

Then they formed into two camps : on one 
side the exalted spirits, sufferers, all the expan- 
sive souls who had need of the infinite, bowed 
their heads and wept; they wrapt themselves in 
unhealthy dreams and there could be seen noth- 
ing but broken reeds on an ocean of bitterness. 
On the other side the men of the flesh remained 
standing, inflexible in the midst of positive 
joys, and cared for nothing except to count the 
money they had acquired. It was only a sob 
and a burst of laughter, the one coming from 
the soul, the other from the body. 

This is what the soul said : 

"Alas! Alas! religion has departed; the clouds 
of heaven fall in rain; we have no longer either 
hope or expectation, not even two little pieces 
of black wood in the shape of a cross before 
which to clasp our hands. The star of the 
future is loath to rise; it can not get above the 
horizon ; it is enveloped in clouds, and like 
the sun in winter its disc is the color of blood, 
as in ’93. There is no more love, no more glory. 
What heavy darkness over all the earth! And 
we shall be dead when the day breaks.” 


24 


THE CONFESSION OF 


This is what the body said: 

“Man is here below to satisfy his senses, he 
has more or less of white or yellow metal to 
which he owes more or less esteem. To eat, 
to drink and to sleep, that is life. As for the 
bonds which exist between men, friendship 
consists in loaning money; but one rarely has 
a friend whom he loves enough for that. Kin- 
ship determines inheritance ; love is an exercise 
of the body; the only intellectual joy is vanity. ” 

Like the Asiatic plague exhaled from the 
vapors of the Ganges, frightful despair stalked 
over the earth. Already Chateaubriand, prince 
of poesy, wrapping the horrible idol in his pil- 
grim’s mantle, had placed it on a marble altar 
in the midst of perfumes and holy incense. 
Already the children were tightening their idle 
hands and drinking in their bitter cup the 
poisoned brewage of doubt. Alread ) 7 things 
were drifting toward the abyss, when the jackals 
suddenly emerged from the earth. A cadaver- 
ous and infected literature which had no form 
but that of ugliness, began to sprinkle with fetid 
blood all the monsters of nature. 

Who will dare to recount what was passing 
in the colleges? Men doubted everything : the 
young men denied everything. The poets sung 
of despair; the youth came from the schools 
with serene brow, their faces glowing with 
health and blasphemy in the mouths. More- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


25 


over, the French character, being by nature 
gay and open, readily assimilated English and 
German ideas ; but hearts too light to struggle 
and to suffer withered like crushed flowers. 
Thus the principle of death descended slowly 
and without shock from the head to the bowels. 
Instead of having the enthusiasm of evil we 
had only the negation of the good; instead of 
despair, insensibility. Children of fifteen seated 
listlessly under flowering shrubs, conversed for 
pastime on subjects which would have made 
shudder with terror the motionless groves of 
Versailles. The Communion of Christ, the host, 
those wafers that stand as the eternal symbol 
of divine love, were used to seal letters ; the 
children spit upon the bread of God. 

Happy they who escaped those times! Happy 
they who passed over the abyss while looking 
up to Heaven. There are such, doubtless, and 
they will pity us. 

It is unfortunately true that there is in blas- 
phemy a certain discharge of power which so- 
laces the burdened heart. When an atheist, 
drawing his watch, gave God a quarter of an 
hour in which to strike him dead, it is cer- 
tain that it was a quarter of an hour of wrath 
and of atrocious joy. It was the paroxysm of 
despair, a nameless appeal to all celestial pow- 
ers; it was a poor wretched creature squirming 
under the foot that was crushing him; it was 


26 


THE CONFESSION OF 


a loud cry of pain. And who knows? In the 
eyes of Him who sees all things, it was per- 
haps a prayer. 

Thus these youth found employment for their 
idle powers in a fondness for despair. To scoff 
at glory, at religion, at love, at all the world, is 
a great consolation for those who do not know 
what to do ; they mock at themselves and in 
doing so prove the correctness of their view. 
And then it is pleasant to believe oneself un- 
happy when one is only idle and tired. De- 
bauchery, moreover, the first conclusion of the 
principle of death, is a terrible mill stone for 
grinding the energies. 

The rich said: “There is nothing real but 
riches, all else is a dream ; let us enjoy and 
then let us die.” Those of moderate fortune 
said : “There is nothing real but oblivion, all 
else is a dream ; let us forget and let us die.” 
And the poor said : “There is nothing real but 
unhappiness, all else is a dream; let us blas- 
pheme and die. " 

This is too black? It is exaggerated ? What 
do you think of it? Am I a misanthrope? 
Allow me to make a reflection. 

In reading the history of the fall of the Ro- 
man Empire, it is impossible to overlook the 
evil that the Chustions, so admirable in the 
desert, did the state when they were in power. 
“When I think,” said Montesquien, “of the 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


27 


profound ignorance into which the Greek clergy 
plunged the laity, I am obliged to compare 
them to the Scythians of whom Herodotus 
speaks, who put out the eyes of their slaves in 
order that nothing might distract their atten- 
tion from their work .... No affair of 
state, no peace, no truce, no negotiation, no 
marriage could be transacted by any one but 
the clergy. The evils of this system were be- 
yond belief.” 

Montesquien might have added: Christianity 
destroyed the emperors but it saved the people. 
It opened to the barbarians the palaces of Con- 
stantinople, but it opened the doors of cottages 
to the ministering angels of Christ. It had 
much to do with the great ones of earth. And 
what is more interesting than the death-rattle 
of an empire corrupt to the very marrow of its 
bones, than the somber galvanism under the 
influence of which the skeleton of tyranny 
danced upon the tombs of Heliogabalus and 
Caracalla! What a beautiful thing that mummy 
of Rome, embalmed in the perfumes of Nero 
and swathed in the shroud of Tiberius! It had 
to do, messieurs the politicians, with finding 
the poor and giving them life and peace; it 
had to do with allowing the worms and tumors 
to destroy the monuments of shame, while 
drawing from the ribs of this mummy a virgin 


28 


THE CONFESSION OF 


as beautiful as the mother of the Redeemer, 
hope, the friend of the oppressed. 

That is what Christianity did ; and now, 
after many years, what have they who destroyed 
it done? They saw that the poor allowed them- 
selves to be oppressed by the rich, the feeble 
by the strong, because of that saying : “The 
rich and the strong will oppress me on earth; 
but when they wish to enter paradise, I shall 
be at the door and I will accuse them before 
the tribunal of God.” And so. alas! they were 
patient. 

The antagonists of Christ therefore said to 
the poor: “You wait patiently for the day 
of justice: there is no justice; you wait for 
the life eternal to achieve your vengeance: there 
is no life eternal; you gather up your tears 
and those of your family, the cries of children 
and the sobs of women, to place them at the 
feet of God at the hour of death : there is no 
God.” 

Then it is certain that the poor man dried 
his tears, that he told his wife to check her sobs, 
his children to come with him, and that he stood 
upon the earth with the power of a bull. He 
said to the rich : “Thou who oppressest me, 
thou art only man,” and to the priest: “Thou 
who hast consoled me, thou hast lied.” That 
was just what the antagonists of Christ desired. 
Perhaps they thought this was the way to 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


29 


achieve man’s happiness, sending him out to 
the conquest of liberty. 

But, if the poor man, once satisfied that the 
priests deceive him, that the rich rob him, that 
all men have rights, that all good is of this 
world, and that misery is impiety; the poor man, 
believing in himself and in his two arms says 
to himself some fine day: “War on the rich! 
for me, happiness here in this life since there 
is no other! forme, the earth since heaven is 
empty! for me and for all, since all are equal.” 
Oh ! reasoners sublime who have led him to 
this, what will you say to him if he is conquered? 

Doubtless 3'ou are philanthropists, doubtless 
you are right about the future, and the day will 
come when you will be blessed ; but thus far, 
we have not blessed you. When the oppressor 
said: “This world for me!” the oppressed re- 
plied: “Heaven for me!” Now what can he 
say? 

All the evils of the present come from two 
causes: the people who have passed through 
1793, 1814 nurse wounds in their hearts. That 
which was is no more ; what will be, is not yet. 
Do not seek elsewhere the cause of our malady. 

Here is a man whose house falls in ruins ; 
he has torn it down in order to build another. 
The rubbish encumbers the spot, and he waits 
for new materials for his new home. At the 
moment he has prepared to cut the stone and 


30 


THE CONFESSION OF 


mix the cement, while standing pick in hand 
with sleeves rolled up, he is informed that 
there is no more stone, and is advised to whit- 
en the old material and make the best possible 
use of that. What can you expect this man to 
do who is unwilling to build his nest out of 
ruins? The quarry is deep, the tools too weak 
to hew out the stones. “Wait!” they say to 
him, ‘‘we will draw out the stones one by one; 
hope, work, advance, withdraw.” What do they 
not tell him? And in the meantime he has 
lost his old house, and has not yet built the 
new ; he does not know where to protect him- 
self from the rain, or how to prepare his even- 
ing meal, nor where to work, nor where to 
sleep, nor where to die ; and his children are 
newly born. 

I am much deceived if we do not resemble 
that man. Oh ! people of the future ! when 
on a warm summer day you bend over your 
plows in the green fields of your native land ; 
when you see in the pure sunlight under a 
spotless sky, the earth, your fruitful mother, 
smiling in her matutinal robe on the workman, 
her well-beloved child ; when drying on your 
brow the holy baptism of sweat, you cast 
your eye over the vast horizon, when there 
will not be one blade higher than another in 
the human harvest, but only violets and mar- 
guerites in the midst of ripening sheafs; Oh! 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


3i 


free men ! When you thank God that you were 
born for that harvest, think of those who are 
no more, tell yourself that we have dearly pur- 
chased the repose which you enjoy; pity us 
more than all your fathers, for w T e have suffered 
the evil which entitled them to pity and we 
have lost that which consoled them. 


CHAPTER III 

I have to explain how I was first taken with 
the malady of the age. 

I was at table, at a great supper, after a 
masquerade. About me my friends richly cos- 
tumed, on all sides young men and women, all 
sparkling with beauty and joy; on the right 
and on the left exquisite dishes, flagons, splen- 
dor, flowers ; above my head an obstreperous 
orchestra, and before me my mistress, a superb 
creature whom I idolized. 

I was then nineteen ; I had passed through 
no great misfortune, I had suffered from no 
disease ; my character was at once haughty and 
frank, my heart full of the hopes of youth. The 
fumes of wine fermented in my head; it was 
one of those moments of intoxication when all 
that one sees and hears, speaks to one of the 
well-beloved. All nature appeared then a beau- 
tiful stone with a thousand facets on which 


32 


THE CONFESSION OF 


was engraven the mysterious name. One would 
willingly embrace all who smile, and one feels 
that he is brother of all who live. My mistress 
had granted me a rendezvous for the night and 
I was gently raising my glass to my lips while 
my eyes were fixed on her. 

As I turned to take a napkin, my fork fell. I 
stooped to pick it up and not finding it at first 
I raised the table-cloth to see where it had 
rolled. I then saw under the table my mistress’s 
foot ; it rested on that of a young man seated 
beside her ; from time to time they exchanged 
a gentle pressure. 

Perfectly calm, I asked for another fork and 
continued my supper. My mistress and her 
neighbor were also on their side, very quiet, 
talking but little and never looking at each 
other. The young man had his elbows on. the 
table and was chatting with another woman who 
was showing him her necklace and bracelets. 
My mistress sat motionless, her eyes fixed and 
swimming with languor. I watched both of 
them during the entire supper and I saw noth- 
ing either in their gestures or in their faces 
that could betray them. Finally, at dessert, I 
dropped my napkin and stooping down saw 
that they were still in the same position. 

I had promised to take my mistress to her 
home that night. She was a widow and there- 
fore quite at liberty, living alone with an old 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


33 


relative who served as chaperone. As I was 
crossing the hall she called to me : 

"Come, Octave!" she said, "let us go, here I 
am." 

I laughed and passed out without replying. 
After walking a short distance I sat down on a 
stone projecting from a wall. I do not know 
what my thoughts were ; I sat as though stu- 
pefied by the infidelity of that woman of whom 
I had never been jealous, whom I had never 
had cause to suspect. What I had seen left 
no room for doubt, I was felled as though by 
a blow from a club. The only thing I remember 
doing as I sat there, was looking mechanically 
up at the sky, and, seeing a star spin across 
the heavens, I saluted that fugitive gleam in 
which poets see a blasted world and gravely 
took off my hat to it. 

I returned to my home very quietly, experi- 
encing nothing, as though deprived of sensation 
and reflection. I undressed and retired ; hardly 
had my head touched the pillow when the spirit 
of vengeance seized me with such force that I 
suddenly sat bolt upright against the wall as 
though all my muscles were made of wood. I 
jumped from my bed with a cry of pain ; I could 
walk only on my heels, the nerves in my toes 
were so irritated. I passed an hour in this 
way completely foolish and stiff as a skeleton. 

3 


34 


THE CONFESSION OF 


It was the first burst of passion I had ever ex- 
perienced. 

The man I had surprised with my mistress 
was one of my most intimate friends. I went 
to his house the next day in company with a 
young lawyer named Desgenais ; we took pis- 
tols, another witness, and repaired to the woods 
of Vincennes. On the way I avoided speaking 
to my adversary or even approaching him ; thus 
I resisted -the temptation to insult or strike 
him, a useless form of violence at a time when 
the law recognized the code. But I could not 
remove my eyes from him. He was the compan- 
ion of my childhood and we had lived in the 
closest intimacy for many years. He under- 
stood perfectly my love for my mistress and had 
several times intimated that bonds of this kind 
were sacred to a friend, and that he would be 
incapable of an attempt to supplant me even 
if he loved the same woman. In short, I had 
perfect confidence in him and I had perhaps 
never pressed the hand of any human creature 
more cordially than his. 

My glance was eager and curious as I scru- 
tinized this man whom I had heard speak of 
love as an antique hero and whom I had caught 
caressing my mistress. It was the first time 
in my life I had seen a monster; I measured 
Jiim with a haggard eye to see how he was 
made. He whom I had known since he was 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


35 


ten years old, with whom I had lived in the 
most perfect friendship, it seemed to me I had 
never seen him. Allow me a comparison. 

There is a Spanish play, familiar to all the 
world, in which a stone statue comes to sup 
with a debauchee , sent thither by divine justice. 
The debauchee puts a good face on the matter 
and forces himself to affect indifference ; but 
the statue asks for his hand, and when he has 
extended it he feels himself seized by a mortal 
chill and falls in convulsions. 

Whenever I have loved and confided in any 
one either friend or mistress, and suddenly 
discover that I have been deceived I can only 
describe the effect produced on me by compar- 
ing it to the clasp of that marble hand. It is the 
actual impression of marble, it is as though a 
man of stone had kissed me. Alas! this hor- 
rible apparition has knocked more than once at 
my door; more than once we have supped to- 
gether. 

When the arrangements were all made we 
placed ourselves in line, facing each other and 
slowly advancing. My adversary fired the first 
shot wounding me in the right arm. I imme- 
diately seized my pistol in the other hand ; but 
my strength failed, I could not raise it; I fell 
on one knee. 

Then I saw my enemy running up to me with 
an expression of great anxiety on his face, and 


36 


THE CONFESSION OF 


very pale. My seconds hastened to my side 
seeing that I was wounded ; but he pushed them 
aside and seized my wounded arm. His teeth 
were set and I could see that he was suffering- 
intense anguish. His agony was the most 
frightful that man can experience. 

“Go!” he cried, "go staunch your wound at 
the house of — ” 

He choked, and so did I. 

I was placed in a cab where I found a physi- 
cian. My wound was not dangerous, the bone 
being untouched, but I was in such a state of 
excitation that it was impossible to properly 
dress my wound. As they were about to drive 
from the field I saw a trembling hand at the 
door of my cab ; it was my adversary. I shook 
my head in reply ; I was in such a rage that I 
could not pardon him although I felt that his 
repentance was sincere. 

By the time I reached home I had lost much 
blood and felt relieved, for feebleness saved me 
from the force of anger which was doing me 
more harm than my wound. I willingly retired 
to my bed and called for a glass of water which 
I gulped down with relish. 

But I was soon attacked by fever. It was 
then I began to shed tears. I could under- 
stand that my mistress had ceased to love me, 
but not that she could deceive me. I could not 
comprehend why a woman who was forced to 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


37 


it by neither duty nor interest could lie to one 
man when she loved another. Twenty times a 
day I asked my friend Desgenais how that could 
be possible. 

“If I were her husband,” I said, “or if I sup- 
ported her I could easily understand how she 
might be tempted to deceive me; but if she no 
longer loves me, why deceive me?” 

I did not understand how any one- could lie 
for love; I was but a child then, but I confess 
that I do not understand it yet. Every time I 
have loved a woman I have told her of it, and 
when I ceased to love her I confessed it to her 
with the same sincerity, having always thought 
that in matters of this kind the will was not con- 
cerned and that there was no crime but false- 
hood. 

To all this Desgenais replied: 

“She is unworthy; promise me that you will 
never see her again. " 

I solemnly promised. He advised me, more- 
over, not to write to her, not even to reproach 
her and if she wrote to me not to reply. I 
promised all that with some surprise that he 
should consider it necessary to exact such a 
promise. 

Nevertheless the first thing I did when I was 
able to leave my room was to visit my mis- 
tress. I found her alone, seated in the corner 
of the room with an expression of sorrow on 


33 


THE CONFESSION OF 


her face and an appearance of general disorder 
in her surroundings. I overwhelmed her with 
violent reproaches ; I was intoxicated with des- 
pair. In a paroxysm of grief I fell on the bed 
and gave free course to my tears. 

“Ah! faithless one! wretch!” I cried be- 
tween my sobs, “you knew that it would kill 
me. Did the prospect please you? What have 
I done to you? 

She threw her arms around my neck, saying 
that she had been seduced, that my rival had 
intoxicated her at that fatal supper but that 
she had never been his; that she had aban- 
doned herself in a moment of forgetfulness ; 
that she had committed .a fault but not a crime ; 
but that if I would not pardon her, she, too, 
would die. All that sincere repentance has 
of tears, all that sorrow has of eloquence, she ex- 
hausted to console me; pale and distraught, 
her dress deranged and her hair falling over 
her shoulders she kneeled in the middle of her 
chamber; never have I seen any thing so beau- 
tiful and I shuddered with horror as my senses 
revolted at the sight. 

I went away crushed, scarcely able to direct 
my tottering steps. I wished never to see her 
again; but in a quarter of an hour I returned. 
I do not know what desperate resolve I had 
formed ; I experienced a dull desire to possess 
her once more, to drain the cup of tears and 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


39 


bitterness to the dregs and then to die with 
her. In short I abhorred her, and I idolized 
her ; I felt that her love was my ruin, but that 
to live without her was impossible. I mounted 
the stairs like a flash ; I spoke to none of the 
servants, but, familiar with the house, opened 
the door of her chamber. 

I found her seated calmly before her toilette 
table, covered with jewels; she held in her 
hand a piece of red crepe which she passed 
gently over her cheeks. I thought I was dream- 
ing; it did not seem possible that this was the 
woman I had left, just fifteen minutes before, 
overwhelmed with grief, abased to the floor; I 
was as motionless as a statue. She, hearing 
the door open, turned her head and smiled : 

“Is it you?” she said. 

She was going to the ball and was expecting 
my rival. As she recognized me, she com- 
pressed her lips and frowned. 

I started to leave the room. I looked at her 
bare neck, lithe and perfumed, on which rested 
her knotted hair confined by a jewelled comb ; 
that neck, the seat of vital force, was blacker 
than hell ; two shining tresses had fallen there 
and some light silvern hairs balanced above it. 
Her shoulders and neck, whiter than milk, dis- 
played a heavy growth of down. There was in 
that knotted head of hair something indescrib- 
ably immodest which seemed to mock me when 


4 o 


THE CONFESSION OF 


I thought of the disorder in which I had seen 
her a moment before. I suddenly stepped up 
to her and struck that neck with the back of 
my hand. My mistress gave vent to a cry of 
terror, and fell on her hands, while I hastened 
from the room. 

When I reached my room I was again at- 
tacked by fever and was obliged to take to my 
bed. My wound had reopened and I suffered 
great pain. Desgenais came to see me and I 
told him what had happened. He listened in 
silence, then paced up and down the room as 
though undecided as to his course. Finally he 
stopped before my bed and burst out laughing. 

"Is she your first mistress?” he asked. 

"No!" I replied, “she is my last.” 

Toward midnight, while sleeping restlessly 
I seemed to hear in my dreams a profound sigh. 
I opened my eyes and saw my mistress stand- 
ing near my bed with arms crossed, looking 
like a spectre. I could not restrain a cry of 
fright, believing it to be an apparition con- 
jured up by my diseased brain. I leaped from 
my bed and fled to the farther end of the room; 
but she followed me. 

"It is I!” said she; putting her arms around 
me she drew me to her. 

"What do you want of me?” I cried. “Leave 
me! I fear I shall kill you!” 

“Very well, kill me!" she said. “I have de- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


4i 


ceived you, I have lied to you, I am an infa- 
mous wretch and I am miserable; but I love 
you, and I can not live without you.” 

I looked at her ; how beautiful she was! Her 
body was quivering; her eyes languid with love 
and moist with voluptuousness ; her bosom was 
bare, her lips burning. I raised her in my arms. 

"Very well,” I said, “but before God who 
sees us, by the soul of my father, I swear that 
I will kill you and that I will die with you.” 

I took a knife from the table and placed it 
under the pillow. 

“Come, Octave,” she said smiling and kiss- 
ing me, ‘‘do not be foolish. Come, my dear, 
all these horrors have unsettled your mind; you 
are feverish. Give me that knife.” 

I saw that she wished to take it. 

“Listen to me,” I then said ; “I do not know 
what comedy you are playing, but as for me I 
am in earnest. I have loved you as only man 
can love and to my sorrow I love you still. 
You have just told me that you love me, and 1 
hope it is true ; but, by all that is sacred, if I 
am your lover to-night, no one shall take my 
place to-morrow. Before God, before God," I 
repeated, “I would not take you back as my 
mistress for I hate you as much as I love you. 
Before God, if you consent to stay here to- 
night I will kill you in the morning.” 

When I had spoken these words I fell into 


42 


THE CONFESSION OF 


a delirium. She threw her cloak over her 
shoulders and fled from the room. 

When I told Desgenais about it he said : 

“Why did you do that? You must be very 
much disgusted for she is a beautiful woman.” 

“Are you joking?” I asked. “Do you think 
such a woman could be my mistress? Do you 
think I would ever consent to share her with 
another? Do you know that she confesses that 
another possesses her and do you expect me, 
loving her as I do, to share my love? If that 
is the way you love, I pity you." 

Desgenais replied that he was not so partic- 
ular. 

“My dear Octave,” he added, “you are very 
young. You want many things, beautiful things, 
which do not exist. You believe in a singu- 
lar sort of love ; perhaps you are capable of it ; 
I believe you are, but I do not envy you. You 
will have other mistresses, my friend, and you 
will live to regret what happened last night. 
If that woman came to you it is certain that 
she loved you, perhaps she does not love you 
at this moment, indeed she may be in the arms 
of another ; but she loved you last night in that 
room ; and what should you care for the rest? 
Yon will regret it, believe me, for she will not 
come again. A woman pardons everything ex- 
cept such a slight. Her love for you must have 
been something terrible when she came to you 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


43 


knowing and confessing herself guilty, risking 
rebuff and contempt at your hands. Believe 
me you will regret it, for I am satisfied that 
you will soon be cured.” 

There was such an air of simple conviction 
about my friend’s words, such a desparing cer- 
tainty based on experience, that I shuddered 
as I listened. While he was speaking I felt a 
strong desire to go to my mistress, or to write 
to her to come to me. I was so weak that 1 
could not leave my bed and that saved me from 
the shame of finding her waiting for my rival 
or perhaps in his company. But I could write 
to her ; in spite of myself I doubted whether 
she would come if I should write. 

When Desgenais left me I became so desper- 
ate that I resolved to put an end to my trouble. 
After a terrible struggle horror got the better 
of love. I wrote my mistress that I would 
never see her again and begged her not to try 
to see me unless she wished to be exposed to 
the shame of being refused admittance. I called 
a servant and ordered him to deliver the letter 
at once. He had hardly closed the door when 
I called him back. He did not hear me ; I did 
not dare call again; covering my face with my 
hands I yielded to an overwhelming sense of 
despair. 


44 


THE CONFESSION OF 


CHAPTER IV 

The next morning the first question that oc- 
curred to my mind was: “What shall I do?" 

I had no occupation. I had studied medi- 
cine and law without being able to decide on 
either of the two careers ; I had worked for a 
banker for six months and my services were so 
unsatisfactory that I was obliged to resign to 
avoid being discharged. My studies had been 
varied but superficial; my memory was active 
but not retentive. 

My only treasure after love, was indepen- 
dence. In my childhood I had devoted myself 
to a morose cult, and had, so to speak, con- 
secrated my heart to it. One day my father, 
solicitous about my future spoke to me of sev- 
eral careers between which he allowed me to 
choose. I was leaning on the window-sill, look- 
ing at a solitary poplar tree that was swaying 
in the breeze down in the garden. I thought 
over all the various occupations and wondered 
which one I should choose. I turned them 
all over, one after another, in my head, and 
then not feeling inclined to any of them I al- 
lowed my thoughts to wander. Suddenly it 
seemed to me that I felt the earth move and 
that a secret invisible force was slowly drag- 
ging me into space and ^becoming tangible to 
my senses; I saw it mount into the sky; I 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


45 


seemed to be on a ship; the poplar near my 
window resembled a mast; I arose, stretched 
out my arms, and cried : 

“It is little enough to be a passenger for one 
day on this ship floating through space; it is 
little enough to be a man, a black point on 
that ship; I will be a man but not any par- 
ticular kind of man. ” 

Such was the first vow that, at the age of 
fourteen, I pronounced in the face of nature, 
and since then I have tried to do nothing ex- 
cept in obedience to my father, never being 
able to overcome my repugnance. 

I was therefore free, not through indolence 
but by choice; loving, moreover, all that God 
had made and very little that man had made. 
Of life I knew nothing but love, of the world 
only my mistress, and I did not care to know 
anything more. So falling in love upon leav- 
ing college I sincerely believed that it was for 
life and every other thought disappeared. 

My life was sedentary. I was accustomed to 
pass the day with my mistress; my greatest 
pleasure was to lead her through the fields on 
beautiful summer days, the sight of nature in 
her splendor having ever been for me the most 
powerful incentive to love. In winter, as she 
enjoyed society, we attended numerous balls 
and masquerades and because I thought of no 


4 6 


THE CONFESSION OF 


one but her I fondly imagined her equally true 
to me. 

To give you an idea of my state of mind I 
can not do better than compare it to one of those 
rooms such as we see in these days where are 
collected and confounded all the furniture of 
all times and all countries. Our age has no 
form of its own. We have impressed the seal 
of our time on neither our houses nor our gar- 
dens nor anything that is ours. On the street 
may be seen men who have their beards cut as 
in the time of Henry III., others who are clean 
shaven, others who have their hair arranged 
as in the time of Raphael, others as in the 
time of Christ. So the homes of the rich are 
cabinets of curiosities : the antique, the gothic, 
the taste of the Renaissance, that of Louis XIII., 
all pell-mell. In short we have every century 
except our own — a thing which has never been 
seen at any other epoch : eclecticism is our 
taste ; we take everything we find, this for 
beauty, that for utility, this other for anti- 
quity, such another for its ugliness even, so 
that we live surrounded by debris as though 
the end of the world were at hand. 

Such was the state of my mind ; I had read 
much ; moreover I had learned to paint. I knew 
by heart a great many things, but nothing in 
order, so that my head was like a sponge, swol- 
len but empty. I fell in love with all the poets 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


47 


one after another ; but being of an impression- 
able nature the last comer always disgusted me 
with the rest. I had made of myself a great 
warehouse of ruins, so that having no more 
thirst after drinking of the novel and the un- 
known, I became a ruin myself. 

Nevertheless, about that ruin there was still 
something of youth : it was the hope of my 
heart which was still child-like. 

That hope which nothing had withered or 
corrupted and that love had exalted to excess, 
had now received a mortal wound. The per- 
fidy of my mistress had struck deep, and when 
I thought of it, I felt in my soul a swooning 
away, a convulsive flutter as of a wounded bird 
in agony. 

Society which works so much evil is like 
that serpent of the Indies whose dwelling is 
the leaf of a plant which cures its sting ; it pre- 
sents, in nearly every case the remedy by the 
side of the suffering it has caused. For ex- 
ample the man whose life is one of routine, 
who has his business cares to claim his atten- 
tion upon rising, visits at such an hour, loves at 
another, can lose his mistress and suffer no evil 
effects. His occupations and his thoughts are 
like impassive soldiers ranged in line of battle; 
a single shot strikes one down, his neighbors 
fill up the gap and the line is intact. 

I had not that resource since I was alone: 


4 8 


THE CONFESSION OF 


nature, the kind mother, seemed on the con- 
trary, more vast and more empty than ever. 
If I had been able to forget my mistress I would 
have been saved. How many there are who 
can be cured with even less than that. Such 
men are incapable of loving a faithless woman 
and their conduct, under the circumstances, is 
admirable in its firmness. But is it thus that 
one loves at nineteen when, knowing nothing 
of the world, desiring everything, the young 
man feels within him the germ of all the pas- 
sions? On the right, on the left, below, on the 
horizon, everywhere some voice which calls 
him. All is desire, all is revery. There is no 
reality which holds him when the heart is 
young; there is no oak so gnarled that it 
may not give birth to a dryad ; and if one had 
a hundred arms one need not fear to open them ; 
one has but to clasp his mistress and all is well. 

As for me I did not understand what else 
there was to do besides love, and when any one 
spoke to me of another occupation I did not 
reply. My passion for my mistress had some- 
thing fierce about it, as all my life had 
been severely monachal. I wish to cite a sin- 
gle example. She gave me her portrait in mini- 
ature in a medallion ; I wore it over my heart, 
a practice much affected b\' men ; -but one day 
while idly rummaging about a shop filled with 
curiosities I found an iron "discipline whip” 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


49 


such as was used by the mediaeval flagellants ; 
at the end of this whip was a metal plate brist- 
ling with sharp iron points ; I had the medal- 
lion riveted to this plate and then returned it to 
its place over my heart. The sharp points 
pierced my bosom with every movement and 
caused such a strange voluptuous anguish that 
I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in 
order to intensify the sensation. I knew very 
well that I was committing folly; love is re- 
sponsible for many others. 

When that woman deceived me I removed 
the cruel medallion. I can not tell with what 
sadness I detached that iron girdle and what 
a sigh escaped me when it was gone. 

“Ah! poor wounds!” I said, “you will soon 
heal, but what balm is there for that other 
deeper wound?” 

I had reason to hate that woman, she was, so 
to speak, mingled with the blood of my veins ; 
I cursed her but I dreamed of her. What could 
I do with a dream? By what effort of the will 
could I drown memory of flesh and blood? 
Macbeth having killed Duncan saw that the 
ocean would not wash his hands clean again ; 
it would not have washed away my wounds. 
I said to Desgenais : “When I sleep, her head 
is on my pillow.” 

My life had been wrapped up in that woman ; 
to doubt her was to doubt all, to deny her, to 
4 


5 ° 


THE CONFESSION OF 


curse all, to lose her, to renounce all. I no 
longer went out ; the world seemed to be peo- 
pled with monsters, with horned deer and croc- 
odiles. To all that was said to distract my 
mind I replied : 

“Yes that is all very well, but you may rest 
assured I shall do nothing of the kind.” 

I sat in my window and said : 

“She will come, I am sure of it, she is com- 
ing, she is turning the corner at this moment, I 
can feel her approach. She can no more live 
without me than I without her. What shall I 
say? How shall 1 receive her?” 

Then the thought of her perfidy recurred to me. 

“Ah! let her come! I will kill her!" 

Since my last letter I had heard nothing of 
her. 

"What is she doing?” I asked myself. “She 
loves another? Then I will love another also. 
Whom shall I love?" 

While casting about I heard a far distant 
voice crying: 

“Thou, love another? Two beings who love, 
who embrace and who are not thou and I! Is 
such a thing possible? Are you a fool?" 

“Coward!" said Desgenais, “when will you 
forget that woman? Is she such a great loss? 
Take the first comer and console yourself.” 

“No," I replied, “it is not such a great loss. 
Have I not done what I ought? Have I not 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


5i 


driven her away from here? What have you 
to say to that? The rest concerns me; the 
bull wounded in the arena is at liberty to go to 
sleep in a corner with the sword of the matador 
in his shoulder, and die in peace. What can 
I do, tell me? What do you mean by first 
comer? You will show me a cloudless sky, 
trees and houses, men who talk, drink, sing, 
women who dance and horses that gallop. All 
that is not life, it is the noise of life. Go, go, 
leave me in peace.” 


CHAPTER V 

When Desgenais saw that my despair was 
incurable, that I would neither listen to any 
advice nor leave my room, he took the thing 
seriously. I saw him enter one evening with 
an expression of gravity on his face; he spoke 
of my mistress and continued in his tone of 
persiflage, saying all manner of evil of women. 
While he was speaking I was leaning on my 
elbow, and, rising in my bed, I listened atten- 
tively. 

It was one of those sombre evenings when 
the sighing of the wind resembles the moans 
of a dying man ; a fitful storm was brewing, 
and between the plashes of rain on the win- 


52 


THE CONFESSION OF 


dows there was the silence of death. All na- 
ture suffers in such moments, the trees writhe 
in pain and twist their heads; the birds of the 
fields cower under the bushes ; the streets of 
cities are deserted. I was suffering from my 
wound. But a short time before I had a mis- 
tress and a friend. The mistress had deceived 
me and the friend had stretched me on a bed 
of pain. I could not clearly distinguish what 
was passing in my head ; it seemed to me that 
I was under the influence of a horrible dream 
and that I had but to awake to find myself 
cured ; at times it seemed that my entire life 
had been a dream, ridiculous and puerile, the 
falseness of which had just been disclosed. 
Desgenais was seated near the lamp at my side; 
he was firm and serious, although a smile hov- 
ered about his lips. He was a man of heart, 
but as dry as a pumice stone. An early expe- 
rience had made him bald before his time ; he 
knew life and had suffered; but his grief was 
a cuirass; he was a materialist and he waited 
for death. 

"Octave,” he said, "after what has happened 
to you I see that you believe in love such as 
the poets and romancers have represented ; in 
a word you believe in what is said here below 
and not in what is done. That is because you 
do not reason soundly and it may lead you into 
great misfortune. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


53 


"The poets represent love as the sculptors de- 
sign beauty, as the musicians create melody ; 
that is to say, endowed with an exquisite ner- 
vous organization, they gather up with discern- 
ing ardor the purest elements of life, the 
most beautiful lines of matter, and the most 
harmonious voices of nature. There was, it is 
said, at Athens a great number of beautiful 
girls ; Praxiteles designed them all one after 
another; then from all these diverse types of 
beauty, each one of which had its defects, he 
formed a single faultless beauty and created 
Venus. The first man who created a musical 
instrument and who gave to that art its rules 
and its laws, had for a long time listened to 
the murmuring of reeds and the singing of birds. 
Thus the poets who understand life, after hav- 
ing known much of love, more or less transi- 
tory, after having felt that sublime exaltation 
which passion can for the moment inspire, de- 
ducting from human nature all elements which 
degrade it, created the mysterious names which 
through the ages are passed from lip to lip : 
Daphne and Chloe, Hero and Leander, Pyra- 
mus and Thisbe. 

"To try to find in real life such love as this, 
eternal and absolute, is the same thing as to 
seek on the public squares such a woman as 
Venus or to expect nightingales to sing the sym- 
phonies of Beethoven. 


54 


THE CONFESSION OF 


"Perfection does not exist; to comprehend it 
is the triumph of human intelligence ; to de- 
sire to possess it, the most dangerous of fol- 
lies. Open your window, Octave ; do you not 
see the infinite? You try to form some idea of 
a thing that has no limits, you who were born 
yesterday and who will die to morrow! This 
spectacle of immensity in every country in the 
world, produces the wildest illusions. Relig- 
ions are born of it ; it was to possess the infi- 
nite that Cato cut his throat, that the Chris- 
tians delivered themselves to lions, the Hugue- 
nots to the Catholics; all the people of the 
earth have stretched out their hands to that 
immensity and have longed to plunge into it. 
The fool wishes to possess heaven ; the sage 
admires it, kneels before it, but does not desire 
it. 

"Perfection, my friend, is no more made for 
us than immensity. We must seek for noth- 
ing in it, demand nothing of it, neither love nor 
beauty, happiness nor virtue ; but we must love 
it if we would be virtuous, if we would attain 
the greatest happiness of which man is capa- 
ble. 

"Let us suppose you have in your study a pic- 
ture by Raphael that you consider perfect; let 
us suppose that upon a close examination you 
discover in one of the figures a gross defect of 
design, a limb distorted, or a muscle that be- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


55 


lies nature, such as has been discovered, they 
say, in one of the arms of an antique gladiator ; 
you would experience a feeling of displeasure, 
but you would not throw that picture in the 
fire ; you would merely say that it is not perfect 
but that it has qualities that are worthy of ad- 
miration. 

“There are women whose natural singleness 
of heart and sincerity are such that they could 
not have two lovers at the same time. You 
believed your mistress such a one ; that is best, 
I admit. You have discovered that she has 
deceived you ; does that oblige you to despise 
and to abuse her, to believe her deserving of 
your hatred? 

“Even if your mistress had never deceived 
you, even if at this moment she loved none 
other than you, think, Octave, how far her love 
would still be from perfection, how human it 
would be, how small, how restrained by the 
hypocrisies and conventions of the world ; re- 
member that another man possessed her before 
you, that many others will possess her after 
you. 

“Reflect: what drives you at this moment to 
despair is the idea of perfection in your mis- 
tress, the idea that has been shattered. But 
when you understand that that primal idea 
itself was human, small and restricted, you 
will see that it is little more than a round in 


56 


THE CONFESSION OF 


the rotten ladder of human imperfection. 

“I think you will readily admit that your mis- 
tress has had other admirers and that she will 
have still others in the future ; you will doubt- 
less reply that it matters little, so long as she 
loved you. But I ask you, since she has had 
others, what difference does it make whether 
it was yesterday or two years since? Since 
she loves but one at a time what does it mat- 
ter whether it is during an interval of two years 
or the course of a single night? Are you a 
man, Octave? Do you see the leaves falling 
from the trees, the sun rising and setting? Do 
you hear the ticking of the horologe of time 
with each pulsation of your heart? Is there, 
then, such a difference between the love of a 
year and the love of an hour? I challenge you 
to answer that, you fool, as you sit there look- 
ing out at the infinite through a window not 
larger than your hand. 

"You consider that woman faithful who loves 
you two years ; you must have an almanac that 
will indicate just how long it takes for an hon- 
est man’s kisses to dry on a woman’s lips. You 
make a distinction between the woman who 
sells herself for money and the one who gives 
herself for pleasure, between the one who gives 
herself through pride and the one who gives 
herself through devotion. Among women who 
are for sale, some cost more than others ; among 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


57 


those who are sought for pleasure some inspire 
more confidence than others; and among those 
who are worthy of devotion there are some 
who receive a third of a man ; s heart, others a 
quarter, others a half, depending upon her edu- 
cation, her manner, her name, her birth, her 
beauty, her temperament, according to the oc- 
casion, according to what is said, according to 
the time, according to what you have drunk 
for dinner. 

“You love women, Octave, because you are 
young, ardent, because your features are regu- 
lar and your hair dark and glossy, but you do 
not, for all that, understand woman. 

“Nature, having all, desires the reproduction 
of beings ; everywhere, from the summit of the 
mountain to the bottom of the sea, life is op- 
posed to death. God, to conserve the work of 
his hands, has established this law that the 
greatest pleasure of all loving beings shall be 
the act of generation. 

“Oh! my friend when you feel bursting on 
your lips the vow of eternal love, do not be 
afraid to yield, but do not confound wine with 
intoxication; do'not think the cup divine be- 
cause the draught is of celestial flavor ; do not 
be astonished to find it broken and empty in 
the evening. It is but woman, it is a fragile 
vase, made of earth by a potter. 

“Thank God for giving you a glimpse of heav- 


58 


THE CONFESSION OF 


en, but do not imagine yourself a bird because 
you can flap your wings. The birds themselves 
can not escape the clouds; there is a sphere 
where air fails them and the lark rising with 
its song into the morning fog, sometimes falls 
back dead in the field. 

"Take love as a sober man takes wine ; do 
not become a drunkard. If your mistress is 
sincere and faithful, love her for that ; but if 
she is not, if she is merely young and beautiful, 
love her for that; if she is agreeable and spir - 
ituelle , love her for that; if she is none of these 
things but merely loves you, love her for that. 
Love does not come to us every day. 

"Do not tear your hair and poinard yourself 
because you have a rival. You t say that your 
mistress deceives you for another ; it is your 
pride that suffers; but change the words, say 
that it is for you that she deceives him, find 
behold you are happy. 

"Do not make a rule of conduct and do not 
say that you wish to be loved exclusively, for 
in saying that, as you are a man and inconstant 
yourself, you are forced to add tacitly : ‘As far 
as possible.’ 

"Take time as it comes, the wind as it blows, 
woman as she is. The Spaniards, first among 
women, love faithfully; their heart is sincere 
and violent, but they wear a stylet just above 
it. Italian women are lascivious. The English 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


59 


are exalted and melancholy, cold and unnatural. 
The German women are tender and sweet, but 
colorless and monotonous. The French are 
spirituelle , elegant, and voluptuous but they lie 
like demons. 

“Above all do not accuse women of being what 
they are; we have made them thus, undoing the 
work of nature. 

“Nature, who thinks of everything, made the 
virgin for love ; but at her first child her bosom 
loses its form, her beauty its freshness. Wom- 
an is made for motherhood. Man would per- 
haps abandon her, disgusted by the loss of 
beauty; but his child clings to him and weeps. 
Behold the family, the human law ; everything 
that departs from this law is monstrous. 

“Civilization thwarts the ends of nature. In 
our cities, according to our customs, the virgin 
destined by nature for the open air, made to 
sun in the sunlight, to admire the nude wrest- 
lers, as in Lacedemonia, to choose, and to love 
is shut up in close confinement and bolted in ; 
yet she hides romance under her cross ; pale 
and idle she fades away and loses in the silence 
of the nights, that beauty that stifles her and 
that has need of the open air. Then she is sud- 
denly taken from this solitude, knowing noth- 
ing, loving nothing, desiring everything; an 
old woman instructs her, a mysterious word 
is whispered in her ear, and she is thrown 


6o 


THE CONFESSION OF 


into the arms of a stranger. There you have 
marriage, that is to say the civilized fam- 
ily. A child is born. This poor creature has 
lost her beauty and she has never loved. The 
child is brought to her with the words : ‘You 
are a mother. ’ She replies : ‘I am not a mother; 
take that child to some woman who can nurse 
it. I can not/ Her husband tells her that she 
is right, that her child would be disgusted with 
her. She receives careful attention and is soon 
cured of the disease of maternity. A month 
later she may be seen at the Tuileries, at the 
ball, at the opera : her child is at Chaillot, at 
Auxerre ; her husband with another woman. 
Then young men speak to her of love, of devo- 
tion, of sympathy, of all that is in the heart. 
She takes one, draws him to her bosom; he dis- 
honors her and returns to the Bourse. She 
cries all night, but discovers that tears make 
her eyes red. She takes a consoler, for the 
loss of whom another consoles her ; thus up to 
the age of thirty or more. Then, blast and cor- 
rupted, with no human sentiment, not even dis- 
gust, she meets a fine youth with raven locks, 
ardent eye and hopeful heart; she recalls her 
own youth, she remembers what she has suf- 
ered and telling him the story of her life, she 
teaches him to eschew love. 

“That is woman as we have made her ; such 
are your mistresses. But you say they are 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


61 


women and there is something good in them! 

“But if your character is formed, if you are 
truly a man, sure of yourself and confident of 
your strength, you may taste of life without 
fear and without reserve ; you may be sad or 
joyous, deceived or respected ; but be sure you 
are loved, for what matters the rest? 

"If you are mediocre and ordinary, I advise 
you to consider your course very carefully be- 
fore deciding, but do not expect too much of 
your mistress. 

“If you are weak, dependent upon others, in- 
clined to allow yourself to be dominated by 
opinion, to take root wherever you see a little 
soil, make for yourself a shield that will resist 
everything, for if you yield to your weaker na- 
ture you will not grow, you will dry up like a 
dead plant, and you will bear neither fruit nor 
flowers. The sap of your life will dissipate 
into the formation of a useless bark; all your 
actions will be as colorless as the leaves of the 
willow ; you will have no tears to water you, 
but those from your own eyes, to nourish you, 
no heart but your own. 

“But if you are of exalted nature, believing in 
dreams and wishing to realize them, I say to 
you plainly : Love does not exist. 

“For to love is to give body and soul, or bet- 
ter it is to make a single being of two; it is 
to walk in the sunlight, in the open air through 


62 


THE CONFESSION OF 


the boundless prairies with a body having four 
arms, two heads and two hearts. Love is faith, 
it is the religion of terrestrial happiness, it is 
a luminous triangle suspended in the temple 
of the world. To love is to walk freely through 
that temple and to have at your side a being 
capable of understanding why a thought, a 
word, a flower makes you pause and raise your 
eyes to that celestial triangle. To exercise the 
noble faculties of man is a great good, and that 
is why genius is glorious ; but to double those 
faculties, to place a heart and an intelligence 
upon a heart and anintelligence — that is supreme 
happiness. God has nothing better for man; 
that is why love is better than genius. But 
tell me, is that the love of our women? No, 
no, it must be admitted. Love, for them, is 
another thing ; it is to go out veiled, to write 
in secret, to make trembling advances, to heave 
chaste sighs under a starched and unnatural 
robe, then to draw bolts and throw it aside, to 
humiliate a rival, to deceive a husband, to ren- 
der a lover desolate ; to love, for our women, is 
to play at lying, as children play at hide and 
seek, the hideous debauche of a heart, worse 
than all the lubricity of the Romans, or the 
Saturnalia of Priapus ; bastard parody of vice 
itself as well as of virtue ; loathsome comedy 
where all is whispering and oblique glances, 
where all is small, elegant and deformed like 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


63 


the porcelain monsters brought from China; 
lamentable derision of all that is beautiful and 
ugly, divine and infernal ; a shadow without a 
body, a skeleton of all that God has made.” 

Thus spoke Desgenais ; and the shadows of 
night began to fall. 


CHAPTER VI 

The following morning I rode through the 
Bois de Boulogne ; the weather was dark and 
threatening. At the Porte Maillot I dropped 
the reins on my horse’s back and abandoned 
myself to revery, revolving in my mind the 
words spoken by Desgenais the evening before. 

Suddenly I heard my name called. Turning 
my head I spied one of my mistress’ most inti- 
mate friends in an open carriage. She called 
to me to stop, and, holding out her hand with 
a friendly air, invited me to dine with her if I 
had no other engagement. 

This woman, Madam Levasseur by name, was 
small, stout, and decidedly blonde ; I had 
never liked her and my attitude toward her 
had always been one of studied politeness. But 
I could not resist a desire to accept her invi- 
tation ; I pressed her hand and thanked her; I 
was sure we would talk of my mistress. 

She sent a servant to lead my horse and I 


6 4 


THE CONFESSION OF 


entered her carriage; she was alone and we at 
once took the road to Paris. Rain began to 
fall, and the carriage curtains were drawn; 
thus shut up together we rode on in silence. I 
looked at her with inexpressible sadness; she 
was not only the friend of my faithless one but 
her confidante. She had often formed one of 
our party when I called on my mistress in the 
evening ! With what impatience had I endured 
her presence. How often I counted the min- 
utes that must elapse before she would leave! 
That was probably the cause of my aversion 
for her. I knew that she approved of our love ; 
she even went so far as to defend me in our 
quarrels. In spite of the services she had ren- 
dered me, I considered her ugly and tiresome. 
Alas! now I found her beautiful! I looked at 
her hands, her clothes ; every gesture went 
straight to my heart; all the past was associ- 
ated with her. She noticed the change in man- 
ner and understood that I was oppressed by 
sad memories of the past. Thus we sped on 
our way, I looking at her, she smiling at me. 
When we reached Paris she took my hand : 

"Well?” she said. 

"Well?” I replied, sobbing, "tell her if you 
wish.” Tears rushed from my eyes. 

After dinner we sat before the fire. 

“But tell me,” she said, "is it irrevocable? 
Can nothing be done?” 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


65 


“Alas! madam,” I replied, “there is nothing 
irrevocable except the grief that is killing me. 
My condition can be expressed in a few words : 
I can not love her, I can not love another, and I 
can not cease loving.” 

At these words she moved uneasily in her 
chair and I could see an expression of compas- 
sion on her face. For some time she seemed 
to be reflecting, as though pondering over my 
fate and seeking some remedy for my sorrow. 
Ker eyes were closed and she appeared lost in 
revery. She extended her hand and I took it 
in mine. 

“And I, too," she murmured, “that is just 
my experience.” She stopped, overcome by 
emotion. 

Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful 
is pity. I held Madam Levasseur’s hand as 
she began to speak of my mistress, saying all 
she could think of in her favor.* My sadness 
increased. What could I reply? Finally she 
came to speak of herself. 

Not long since, she said, a man who loved 
her abandoned her. She had made great sacri- 
fices for him ; her fortune was compromised as 
well as her honor and her name. Her husband, 
whom she knew to be vindictive, had made 
threats. Her tears flowed as she continued and 
I began to forget my own- sorrow in my sym- 
pathy for her. She had been married against 
5 


66 


THE CONFESSION OF 


her will; she struggled a long time; but she 
regretted nothing except that she had not been 
able to inspire a more sincere affection. I be- 
lieve she even accused herself because she had 
not been able to hold her lover’s heart, and 
because she had been guilty of apparent indif- 
ference. 

When she had unburdened her heart she be- 
came silent. 

“Madam,” I said, "it was not chance that 
brought about our meeting in the Bo is de Bou- 
log?ie. I believe that human sorrows are but 
wandering sisters and that some good angel 
unites the trembling hands that are stretched 
out for aid. Do not repent having told me your 
sorrow. The secret you have confided to me 
is only a tear which has fallen from your eye, 
but has rested on my heart. Permit me to 
come again and let us suffer together.” 

Such lively' sympathy took possession of me 
that without reflection I kissed her; it did not 
occur to my mind that it could offend her and 
she did not appear even to notice it. 

Our conversation continued in this tone of ex- 
pansive friendship. She told me her sorrows, 
I told her mine, and between those two expe 
riences which touched each other, I felt arise 
a sweetness, as of a celestial accord born of two 
voices in anguish. All this time I had seen 
nothing but her face. Suddenly I noticed that 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


67 


her dress was in disorder. It appeared singu- 
lar to me that, seeing my embarrassment, she 
did not re-arrange it, and I turned my head to 
give her an opportunity. She did nothing. Fi- 
nally meeting her eyes and seeing that she was 
perfectly aware of the state she was in, I felt 
as though I had been struck by a thunder-bolt, 
for I clearly understood that I was the play- 
thing of her monstrous effrontery, that grief 
itself was for her but a means of seducing the 
senses. I took my hat without a word, bowed 
profoundly and left the room. 


CHAPTER VII 

Upon returning to my apartments I found a 
large box in the centre of the room. One of 
my aunts had died and I was one of the heirs to 
her fortune which was not large. The box con- 
tained among other things, a number of musty 
old books. Not knowing what to do and being 
affected with emiui , I began to read one of them. 
They were for the most part romances of the 
time of Louis XV. ; my pious aunt had probably 
inherited them herself and never read them, 
for they were, so to speak, catechisms of vice. 

I was singularly disposed to reflect on every- 
thing that came to my notice, to give every- 
thing a mental and moral significance; I treated 


68 


THE CONFESSION OF 


events as pearls in a necklace which I tried to 
string together. 

It struck me that there was something sig- 
nificant about the arrival of these books at this 
time. I devoured them with a bitterness and 
a sadness born of despair. “Yes, you are right, ” 
I said to myself, “you alone possess the secret 
of life, you alone dare to say that nothing is 
true and real but debauchery, hypocrisy and 
corruption. Be m3' friends, throw on the wound 
in my soul your corrosive poisons, teach me to 
believe in you. ” 

While buried in these shadows I allowed my 
favorite poets and text books to accumulate 
dust. I even ground them under my feet in 
excess of wrath. “You wretched dreamers,” I 
said to them ; “you who teach me only suffer- 
ing, miserable shufflers of words, charlatans if 
you knew the truth, fools if you speak in good 
faith, liars in either case, who make fairy tales 
of the human heart, I will burn the last one of 
you !" 

Then tears came to my aid and I perceived 
that there was nothing real but my grief. “Very 
well,” I cried, in my delirium, “tell me good 
and bad genii, counsellors for good or evil, tell 
me what to do! Choose an arbiter and let him 
speak. ” 

I seized an old Bible which lay on my table, 
and read the first passage that caught my eye. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


69 


"Reply to me thou book of God,” I said, 
"what word have you for me?” My eye fell on 
this passage in Ecclesiastes, Chapter IX : 

I pondered all these things in my heart , and I 
sought diligently for wisdom . There are just and 
wise 7nen and their works are in the hands of God; 
nevertheless man does not know whether he is wor- 
thy of love or hatred . 

And the future is unknown , for there is one event 
to the righteous and to the wicked; to the good , and 
to the clean , and to the unclean ; to him that sacrifi - 
ceth and him that sacrificeth not. The righteous is 
treated as the sinner and the perjurer as him who 
speaks the truth. 

There is an evil among all things that are done 
under the sun , and there is one event to all. There- 
fore the hearts of the children of men are full of evil 
and madness while they live , and after that they go 
to the dead. 

When I read these words I was astounded ; 
I did not know that there was such a sentiment 
in the Bible. "And thou, too, as all others, 
thou book of hope!" 

What do the astronomers think when they 
predict at a given hour and place, the passage 
of a comet, that most eccentric of celestial 
travelers? What do the naturalists think when 
they reveal the myriad forms of life concealed 
in a drop of water? Do they think they have 
invented what they see and that their micro- 


70 


THE CONFESSION OF 


scopes and lenses make the law of nature? What 
did the first law-giver think when, seeking for 
the corner stone in the social edifice, angered 
doubtless by some idle importunity, he struck 
the tables of brass and felt in his bowels the 
yearning for a law of retaliation? Did he then 
invent justice? And the first who plucked the 
fruit planted by his neighbor and who fled cow- 
ering under his mantle, did he invent shame? 
And he who, having overtaken that same thief 
who had robbed him of the product of his toil 
forgave him his sin, and, instead of raising his 
hand to smite him, said “Sit thou down and 
eat thy fill;” when after having thus returned 
good for evil he raised his eyes toward Heaven 
and felt his heart quivering, tears welling from 
his eyes, and his knees bending to the earth, 
did he invent virtue? Oh! Heaven! here is a 
woman who speaks of love and who deceives 
me, here is a man who speaks of friendship, 
and who counsels me to seek consolation in 
debauchery ; here is another woman who weeps 
and would console me with the flesh ; here is a 
Bible that speaks of God and says: “Perhaps; 
there is one event to the righteous and to the 
wicked. " 

I ran to the open window: “Is it true that 
you are empty?” I cried, looking up at the pale 
expanse of sky which spread above me. “Re- 
ply, reply! Before I die grant that I may clasp 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


7i 


in these arms of mine something more than a 
dream !” 

Profound silence reigned. As I stood with 
arms outstretched, eyes lost in space, a swallow 
uttered a plaintive cry; in spite of myself I fol- 
lowed it with my eyes; while the swallow dis- 
apppeared from sight like a flash, a little girl 
passed singing. 


CHAPTER VIII 

Yet I was unwilling to yield. Before taking 
life on its pleasant side after having seen its sin- 
ister side so plainly, I resolved to test every- 
thing. I remained thus for some time a prey 
to countless sorrows, tormented by terrible 
dreams. 

The great obstacle to my cure was my youth. 
Wherever I happened to be, whatever my oc- 
cupation, I could think of nothing but women ; 
the sight of a woman made me tremble. 

I had been so fortunate as to give to love 
my virginity. But the result of this was that 
all my senses were united in the idea of love ; 
there was the cause of my unhappiness. For 
not being able to think of anything but women, 
I could not help turning over in my head, day 
and night, all the ideas of debauchery, of false 
love and of feminine treason with which my 


72 


THE CONFESSION OF 


mind was filled. To possess a woman was for 
me to love her ; for I thought of nothing but 
women and I did not believe in the possibility 
of true love. 

All this suffering inspired me with a sort of 
rage, and at times I was tempted to imitate the 
monks and murder myself in order to conquer 
my senses; at times I felt like going out into 
the street and throwing myself at the feet of 
the first woman I met and vowing eternal love. 

God is my witness that I did all in my power 
to cure myself. Preoccupied from the first with 
the idea that the society of men was the haunt 
of vice and hypocrisy, where all were like my 
mistress, I resolved to separate myself from 
them and live in complete isolation. I resumed 
my neglected studies, I plunged into history, 
poetry and anatomy. There happened to be 
on the fourth floor of the same house an old 
German who was well versed in lore. I deter- 
mined to learn his tongue ; the German was 
poor and friendless and willingly accepted the 
task of instructing me. My perpetual state of 
distraction worried him. How many times 
seated near him with a smoking lamp between 
us, he waited in patient astonishment while I 
sat with my arms crossed on my book, lost in 
revery, oblivious of his presence and of his 
pity. 

" My dear sir, ” said I to him one day, "all this 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


73 


is useless, but you are the best of men. What 
a task you have undertaken! You must leave 
me to my fate; we can do nothing, neither you 
nor I.” 

I do not know that he understood my mean- 
ing, but he grasped my hand and there was no 
more talk of German. 

I soon realized that solitude instead of cur- 
ing me was doing me harm, and so completely 
changed my system. I went to the country and 
galloped through the woods with the huntsmen; 
I rode until I was out of breath, I tried to 
break myself with fatigue, and when after a 
day of sweat in the fields, I reached my bed 
in the evening smelling of powder and the sta- 
ble, I buried my head in the pillow, I rolled 
about under the covers and I cried : “Phan- 
tom, phantom! are you not tired? Will you 
leave me for one night?” 

But why these vain efforts? Solitude sent me 
to nature, and nature to love. When I stood in 
the street of Observation I saw myself sur- 
rounded by corpses, and, drying my hands on 
my bloody apron, stifled by the odor of putre- 
faction, I turned my head in spite of myself, 
and I saw floating before my eyes green har- 
vests, balmy fields and the pensive harmony of 
the evening. “No," I said, “science can not con- 
sole me; I cannot plunge into dead nature, I 
would die there myself and float about like a 


74 


THE CONFESSION OF 


livid corpse amidst the debris of shattered 
hopes. I would not cure myself of my youth ; 

I will live where there is life, or I will at least 
die in the sun.” I began to mingle with the 
throngs at Sevre and Chaville ; I lay down in 
the midst of a flowery dale, in a secluded part 
of Chaville. Alas! all these forests and prairies 
cried to me : 

"What do you seek here? We are green, poor 
child, we wear the colors of hope." 

Then I returned to the city; I lost myself in 
its obscure streets; I looked up at the lights 
in all its windows, all those mysterious family 
nests; I watched the passing carriages; I saw 
man jostling against man. Oh! what solitude! 
How sad the smoke on those roofs! What sor- 
row in those tortuous streets where all are hur- 
rying hither and thither, working and sweating, 
where thousands of strangers rub against your 
elbows; cloaca where there is only society of 
bodies, while souls are solitary and alone, where 
all who hold out a hand to you are prostitutes ! 
"Become corrupt, corrupt, and you will cease 
to suffer!” This has been the cry of all cities 
to man ; it is written with charcoal on city walls, 
on its streets with mud, on its faces with ex- 
travasated blood. 

And at times, when seated in the corner of 
some salon I watched the women as they danced, 
some rosy, some blue, and others white, their 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


75 


arms bare and hair clustered gracefully about 
their shapely heads, looking like cherubim 
drunk with light, floating in their spheres of 
harmony and beauty, I would think : “Ah, what 
a garden, what flowers to gather, to breathe ! 
Ah! Marguerites, Marguerites! What will your 
last petal say to him who plucks it? A little, 
a little, but not all. That is the moral of the 
world, that is the end of your smiles. It is 
over this terrible abyss that you are walking 
in your flower-strewn gauze ; it is on this hide- 
ous truth you run like gazelles on the tips of 
your little toes!” 

“But why take things so seriously?” said 
Desgenais. “That is something that is never 
seen. You complain because bottles become 
empty? There are many casks in the vaults, 
and many vaults in the hills. Make me a good 
fish-hook gilded with sweet words, with a drop 
of honey for bait, and quick ! catch for me in 
the stream of oblivion a pretty consoler, as 
fresh and slippery as an eel ; you will still have 
the hook when the fish shall have glided from 
your hands. Youth must pass away, and if I 
were you I would carry off the queen of Portu- 
gal rather than study anatomy." 

Such was the advice of Desgenais. I made 
my way home with swollen heart, my face con- 
cealed under my cloak. I kneeled at the side 
of my bed and my poor heart dissolved in tears. 


76 


THE CONFESSION OF 


What vows! what prayers! Galileo struck the 
earth, crying : "Nevertheless it moves !” Thus 
I struck my heart. 


CHAPTER IX 

Suddenly, in the midst of black despair youth 
and chance led me to commit an act that de- 
cided my fate. 

I had written my mistress that I wished never 
to see her again ; I kept my word, but I passed 
the nights under her window, seated on a bench 
before her door. I could see the lights in her 
room, I could hear the sound of her piano, at 
times I saw something that looked like a shadow 
through the partially drawn curtains. 

One night as I was seated on the bench, 
plunged in frightful melancholy, I saw a belated 
workman staggering along the street. He mut 
tered a few words in a dazed manner and then 
began to sing. He was so much under the in- 
fluence of liquor that he walked at times on 
one side of the gutter and then on the other. 
Finally he fell on a bench facing another house 
opposite me. There he lay still, supported on 
his elbows, and slept profoundly. 

The street was deserted, a dr}' wind swept 
the dust here and there; the moon shone through 
a rift in the clouds and lighted the spot where 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


77 


the man slept. So I found myself tete-a-tete 
with this boor who, not suspecting my pres- 
ence was sleeping on that stone bench as peace- 
fully as though in his own bed. 

This man served to divert my grief; I arose 
to leave him in full possession, then returned 
and resumed my seat. I could not leave that 
door at which I would not have knocked for an 
empire. Finally, after walking up and down a 
few times I stopped before the sleeper. 

“What sleep!” I said. “Surely this man 
does not dream. His clothes are in tatters, his 
cheeks are wrinkled, his hands hardened with 
toil ; he is some unfortunate who does not have 
bread every day. A thousand gnawing cares, 
a thousand mortal sorrows await his return to 
consciousness; nevertheless, this evening he had 
a piece of money in his pocket, he entered a 
tavern where he purchased oblivion ; he has 
earned enough in a week to enjoy a night of 
slumber and he has perhaps purchased it at 
the expense of his children's supper. Now his 
mistress can betray him, his friend can glide 
like a thief into his hut; I could shake him by 
the shoulder and tell him that he is being mur- 
dered, that his house is on fire ; he would turn 
over and continue to sleep. 

“And I, I do not sleep,” I continued pacing 
up and down the street, “I do not sleep, I who 
have enough in my pocket at this moment to 


78 


THE CONFESSION OF 


purchase sleep for a year ; *1 am so proud and 
so foolish that I dare not enter a tavern, and I 
do not understand that if all unfortunates enter 
there, it is in order that they may come out 
happy. Oh! God! the juice of a grape crushed 
under the foot suffices to dissipate the deepest 
sorrow and to break all the invisible threads 
that the fates weave about our pathway. We 
weep like women, we suffer like martyrs; in 
our despair it seems that the world is crumbling 
under our feet and we sit down in our tears as 
did Adam at Eden’s gate. And in order to cure 
our wound we have but to make a movement 
of the hand and moisten our throats. How 
pitiable our grief since it can be thus assuaged. 
We are surprised that Providence does not send 
angels to grant our prayers ; it need not take 
the trouble* for it has seen our woes, it knows 
our desires, our pride and bitterness, the ocean 
of evil that surrounds us, and is content to 
hang a small black fruit along our paths. Since 
that man sleeps so soundly on his bench why 
do not I sleep on mine? My rival is doubtless 
passing the night with my mistress ; he will 
leave her at day-break ; she will accompany him 
to the door and they will see me asleep on my 
bench. Their kisses will not awaken me, and 
they will shake me by the shoulder; I will turn 
over on the other side and sleep on.” 

Thus, inspired by a fierce joy, I set out in 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


79 


quest of a tavern. As it was past midnight 
some were closed ; that put me in a fury. 
"What!” I cried, "even that consolation is re- 
fused me!” I ran hither and thither knocking 
at the doors of taverns crying: "Wine! Wine!" 

At last I found one open ; I called for a bot- 
tle and without caring whether it was good or 
bad I gulped it down ; a second followed and 
then a third. I dosed myself as with medicine, 
and I forced the wine down as though it had 
been prescribed by a physician to save my life. 

The heavy fumes of the liquor, which was 
doubtless adulterated, mounted to my head. 
As I had gulped it down at a breath, drunken- 
ness seized me promptly ; I felt that I was be- 
coming muddled, then I experienced a lucid 
moment, then confusion followed. Then con- 
sciousness left me, I leaned my elbows on the 
table and said adieu to myself. 

But I had a confused idea that I was not 
alone in the tavern. At the other end of the 
room stood a hideous group with haggard faces 
and harsh voices. Their dress indicated that 
they belonged to the poorer class but were not 
bourgeois ; in short they belonged to that am- 
biguous class, the vilest of all, which has neither 
fortune nor occupation, which never works ex- 
cept at some criminal plot, which is neither 
poor nor rich and combines the vices of one 
class with the misery of the other. 


8o 


THE CONFESSION OF 


They were disputing over a dirty pack of 
cards ; among them I saw a girl who appeared 
to be very young and very pretty, decently clad, 
and resembling her companions in no way, ex- 
cept in the harshness of her voice, which was 
roughand broken as though it had performed the 
office of public crier. She looked at me closely 
as though astonished to see me in such a place, 
for I was elegantly attired. Little by little she 
approached my table and seeing that all the 
bottles were empty, smiled. I saw that she 
had fine teeth of brilliant whiteness ; I took 
her hand and begged her to be seated ; she con- 
sented with good grace and asked what we 
should have for supper. 

I looked at her without saying a word, while 
my eyes began to fill with tears ; she observed 
my emotion and inquired the cause. I could 
not reply. She understood that I had some 
secret sorrow and forebore any attempt to learn 
the cause ; drawing her handkerchief she dried 
my tears from time to time as we dined. 

There was something about that girl that was 
at once repulsive and sweet, a singular impu- 
dence mingled with pity, that I could not under- 
stand. If she had taken my hand in the street 
she would have inspired a feeling of horror in 
me, but it seemed so strange that a creature I 
had never seen should come to me, and with- 
out a word, proceed to order supper and dry 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


81 


my tears with her handkerchief that I was ren- 
dered speechless, revolted and yet charmed. 
What I had done had been done so quickly 
that I seemed to have obeyed some impulse of 
despair. Perhaps I was a fool or the victim 
of some supernal caprice. 

“Who are you?” I suddenly cried out; “what 
do you want of me? How do you know who 
I am? Who told you to dry my tears? Is this 
your vocation and do you think I desire you? 
I would not touch you with the tip of my fin- 
ger. What are you doing here? Reply at once. 
Is it money you want? What price do you put 
on your pity?” 

I arose and tried to go out, but my feet refused 
to support me. At the same time my eyes 
failed me, a mortal weakness took possession 
of me and I fell over a stool. 

“You are not well,” she said taking me by 
the arm, “you have drunk, like the child that 
you are without knowing what you were doing. 
Sit down in this chair and wait until a cab 
passes. You will tell me where you live and I 
will order the driver to take you home to your 
mother, since,” she added, “you really find me 
ugly. " 

As she spoke I raised my eyes. Perhaps my 
drunkenness deceived me, or perhaps I had not 
seen her face clearly before, but suddenly I de- 
tected in that unfortunate a fatal resemblence 
6 


82 


THE CONFESSION OF 


to my mistress. I shuddered at the sight. 
There is a certain shudder that affects the hair; 
some say it is death passing over the head, but 
it was not death that passed over mine. 

It was the malady of the age, or rather^ that 
girl was it herself ; and it was she who, with 
her pale, half-mocking features, came and seated 
herself before me near the door of the tavern. 


CHAPTER X 

The moment I perceived her resemblance to 
my mistress a frightful idea occurred to me; it 
took irresistible possession of my muddled mind 
and I put it into execution at once. 

I took that girl home with me, I arranged 
my room just as I was accustomed to do when 
my mistress was with me. I was dominated by 
a certain recollection of past joys. 

Having arranged my room to my satisfaction 
I gave myself up to the intoxication of despair. 
I probed my heart to the bottom in order to 
sound its depths. A Tyrolean song that my 
mistress used to sing began to run through my 
head : 

Altra volta gieri biele, 

Blanch ’e rossa com’ un flore; 

Ma ora no. Non son piu biele, 

Consumatis dal’ amore.* 


*Once I was beautiful, white and rosy as a flower; but now I am not. 
I am no longer beautiful, consumed by the fijre of love. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


83 


I listened to the echo pf that song as it re- 
verberated through my heart. I said : “Behold 
the happiness of man ; behold my little Para- 
dise; behold my queen Mab, a girl from the 
streets. My mistress is no better. Behold 
what is found at the bottom of the glass when 
the nectar of the gods has been drained ; behold 
the corpse of love.” 

The unfortunate creature heard me singing 
and began to sing herself. I turned pale ; for 
that harsh and rasping voice, coming from the 
lips of one who resembled my mistress, seemed 
to be a symbol of my experience. It sounded 
like a gurgle in the throat of debauchery. It 
seemed to me that my mistress, having been 
unfaithful must have such a voice. I was re- 
minded of Faust who dancing at Brocken with 
a young sorceress, saw a red mouse come from 
her throat. 

“Stop!” I cried. I arose and approached her. 

Let me ask you, O, you men of the time, 
who are bent upon pleasure, who attend the 
balls and the opera and who upon retiring this 
night will seek slumber with the aid of some 
thread-bare blasphemy of old Voltaire, some 
sensible badinage of Paul Louis Courier, some 
essay on economics, you who dally with the 
cold substance of that monstrous water-lily that 
Reason has planted in the hearts of our cities ; 
I beg of you, if by some chance this obscure 


84 


THE CONFESSION OF 


book falls into your hands, do not smile with 
noble disdain, do not shrug your shoulders; do 
not be too sure that I complain of an imagi- 
nary, evil; do not be too sure that human rea- 
son is the most beautiful of faculties, that there 
is nothing real here below but quotations on 
the Bourse, gambling in the salon , wine on the 
table, a healthy body, indifference towards oth- 
ers, and the orgies which come with the night. 

For some day, across your stagnant life, a gust 
of wind will blow. Those beautiful trees that 
you water with the stream of oblivion, Provi- 
dence will destroy ; you will be reduced to des- 
pair, messieurs the impassive, there will be 
tears in your eyes. I will not say that your 
mistresses will deceive you ; that would not 
grieve you so much as the loss of your horse ; 
but I do tell you that you will lose on the 
Bourse; your moneyed tranquility, your golden 
happiness are in the care of a banker who may 
fail; in short I tell you, all frozen as you are, 
you are capable of loving something ; some 
fibre of your being will be torn and you will 
give vent to a cry that will resemble a moan 
of pain. Some day, wandering about the muddy 
streets, when daily material joys shall have 
failed, you will find yourself seated disconso- 
lately on a deserted bench at midnight. 

O! men of marble, sublime egoists, inimi- 
table reasoners who have never given way to 


'A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


85 


despair or made a mistake in arithmetic, if this 
ever happens to you, at the hour of your ruin 
you will remember Abelard when he lost He- 
loise. For he loved her more than you love your 
horses, your money or your mistresses; for he 
lost in losing her more than your prince Satan 
would lose in falling again from the battle- 
ments of Heaven; for he loved her with a cer- 
tain love of which the gazettes do not speak, 
the shadow of which your wives and your 
daughters do not perceive in our theatres and 
in our books ; for he passed half of his life 
kissing her white forehead, teaching her to sing 
the psalms of David and the canticles of Saul ; 
for he did not love her on earth alone ; and 
God consoled him. 

Believe me, when in your distress you think 
of Abelard^ you will not look with the same eye 
upon the sweet blasphemy of Voltaire and the 
badinage of Courier; you will feel that the 
human reason can cure illusions but not sor- 
rows; that God has use for Reason but He has 
not made her the sister of Charity. You will 
find that when the heart of man said : "I be- 
lieve in nothing, for I see nothing,” it did not 
speak the last word on the subject. You will 
look about you for something like hope, you 
will shake the doors of churches to see if they 
still swing, but you will find them walled up; 
you will think of becoming Trappists, and des- 


86 


THE CONFESSION OF 


tiny will mock at you and for reply give you a 
bottle of wine and a courtesan. 

And if you drink the wine, if you take the 
courtesan, you will have learned how such things 
come about. 


PART II 


CHAPTER I 

Upon awaking the following morning I expe- 
rienced a feeling of such deep disgust with my- 
self, I felt so degraded in my own eyes that a 
horrible temptation assailed me. I leaped from 
bed and ordered the creature to leave my room 
as quickly as possible. Then I sat down and 
looked gloomily about the room, my eyes rest- 
ing mechanically on a brace of pistols that 
decorated the walls. 

When the suffering mind advances its hands, 
so to speak, towards annihilation, when our 
soul forms a violent resolution, there seems to 
be an independent physical horror in the act 
of touching the cold steel of some deadly weap- 
on ; the fingers stiffen in anguish, the arm grows 
cold and hard. Nature recoils as the condemned 
walks to death. I can not express what I ex- 
perienced while waiting for that girl to go, un- 
less it was as though my pistol had said to me : 

"Think what you are about to do.” 

87 


88 


THE CONFESSION OF 


Since then I have often wondered what would 
have happened to me if the girl had departed 
immediately. Doubtless the first flush of shame 
would have subsided ; sadness is not despair 
and God has joined them in order that one 
should not leave us alone with the other. Once 
relieved of the presence of that woman, my 
heart would have become calm. There would 
remain only repentance, for the angel of par- 
don has forbidden man to kill. But I was 
doubtless cured for life ; debauchery was once 
for all driven from my door and I would never 
again know the feeling of disgust with which 
its first visit had inspired me. 

But it happened otherwise. The struggle 
which was going on within, the poignant re- 
flections which overwhelmed me, the disgust, 
the fear, the wrath, even, (for I experienced 
all these emotions at the same time) all these 
fatal powers nailed me to my chair, and, while 
I was thus a prey to the most dangerous deli- 
rium, the creature, standing before my mirror, 
thought of nothing but how best to arrange her 
dress and fix her hair, smiling the while. This 
lasted more than a quarter of an hour during 
which I had almost forgotten her. Finally 
some slight noise attracted my attention to her, 
and turning about with impatience I ordered 
her to leave the room in such a tone that she 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


89 


at once opened the door and threw me a kiss 
before going out. 

At the same moment some one rang the bell 
of the outer door. I arose precipitately and had 
only time to open the closet door and motion 
the creature into it when Desgenais entered 
the room with two friends. 

The great currents that are found in the mid- 
dle of the ocean resemble certain events in life. 
Fatality, Chance, Providence, what matters the 
name? Those who quarrel over the word, ad- 
mit the fact. Such are not those who, speak - 
ing of Napoleon or Caesar, say : “He was a man 
of Providence. ” They apparently believe that 
heroes merit the attention which Heaven shows 
them and that the color of purple attracts gods 
as well as bulls. 

What decides the course of these little events, 
what objects and circumstances, in appearance 
the least important, lead to changes in fortune, 
there is not, to my mind, a deeper abyss for 
the thought. There is something in our ordi- 
nary actions that resembles the little- blunted 
arrows we shoot at targets; little by little 
we make of our successive results an abstract 
and regular entity that we call our prudence or 
our will. Then a gust of wind passes and 
behold, the smallest of these arrows, the very 
lightest and most futile is carried beyond our 


go 


THE CONFESSION OF 


vision, beyond the horizon to the dwelling place 
of God himself. 

What a strange feeling of unrest seizes us 
then! What becomes of those phantoms of 
tranquil pride, the will and prudence? Force 
itself, that mistress of the world, that sword of 
man in the combat of life, in vain do we brand- 
ish it over our heads in v^rath, in vain do we 
seek to ward off with it a blow which threatens 
us ; an invisible power turns aside the point, 
and all the impetus of our effort, deflected into 
space, serves only to precipitate our fall. 

Thus at the moment I was hoping to cleanse 
myself from the sin I had committed, perhaps 
to inflict the penalty, at the very instant when 
a great horror had taken possession of me, I 
learned that I had to sustain a dangerous in- 
tervention. 

Desgenais was in good humor; stretching 
out on my sofa he began to chaff me about the 
appearance of my face which looked, he said, as 
though I had not slept well. As I was little 
disposed- to indulge in pleasantry I begged him 
to spare me. 

He appeared to pay no attention to me, but 
warned by my tone he soon broached the sub- 
ject that had brought him to me. He informed 
me that my mistress had not only two lovers at 
a time, but three, that is to say she had treated 
my rival as badly as she had treated me; the 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


9i 


poor boy having discovered her inconstancy 
made a great ado and all Paris knew it. At 
first I did not catch the meaning of Desgenais’ 
words as I was not listening attentively; but 
when he had repeated his story three times in 
detail I was so stupefied that I could not reply. 
My first impulse was to laugh, for I saw that I 
had loved the most unworthy of women ; but 
it was no less true that I loved her still. “Is 
it possible?” was ail I could say. 

Desgenais’ friends confirmed all he had said. 
My mistress had been surprised in her own 
house between two lovers and a scene that all 
Paris knew by heart ensued. She was dis- 
graced, obliged to leave Paris or remain ex- 
posed to the most bitter taunts. 

It was easy for me to see that in all the ridi- 
cule expended on the subject of this woman, 
on my unreasonable passion for her, was pre- 
meditated. To say that she deserved severest 
censure, that she had perhaps committed worse 
sins than those she was charged with, that was 
to make me feel that I had been merely one of 
her dupes. 

All that did not please me; but Desgenais 
had undertaken the task of curing me of my love 
and was prepared to treat my disease heroically. 
A long friendship founded on mutual services 
gave him rights, and as his motive appeared 
praiseworthy I allowed him to have his way. 


92 


THE CONFESSION OF 


Not only did he not spare me, but when he 
saw my trouble and my shame increase, he 
pressed me the harder. My impatience was so 
obvious that he could not continue, so he stopped 
and remained silent, a course that irritated me 
still more. 

In my turn I began to ask questions ; I paced 
to and fro in my room. Although the recital 
of that story was insupportable, I wanted to 
hear it again. I tried to assume a smiling 
face and tranquil air, but in vain. Desgenais 
suddenly became silent after having shown 
himself to be a most virulent gossip. While 
I was pacing up and down my room he looked 
at me calmly as though I was a caged fox. 

I can not express my feeling. A woman who 
had so long been the idol of my heart and who, 
since I had lost her, had caused me such deep 
affliction, the only one I had ever loved, she 
for whom I would weep till death, become sud- 
denly a shameless wretch, the subject of coarse 
jests, of universal censure and scandal ! It 
seemed to me that I felt on my shoulder the 
impression of a heated iron and that I was 
marked with a burning stigma. 

The more I reflected, the more the darkness 
thickened about me. From time to time I turned 
my head and saw a cold smile or a curious 
glance. Desgenais did not leave me, he knew 
very well what he was doing, he knew that I 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


93 


might go to any length in my present desperate 
condition. 

When he found that he had brought me to 
the desired point he did not hesitate to deal 
the finishing stroke. 

“Does that story displease you?” he asked. 
"The best is yet to come. My dear Octave, the 
scene I have described took place on a certain 
night when the moon was shining brightly; 
while the two lovers were quarreling over their 
fair one and talking of cutting her throat as 
she sat before the fire, down in the street a 
certain shadow was seen to pass up and down 
before the house, a shadow that resembled you 
so closely that it was decided that it must be 
you. " 

“Who says that,” I asked, “who has seen me 
in the street?” 

“Your mistress herself; she has told every 
one about it who cared to listen, just as cheer- 
fully as we tell you her story. She claims that 
you love her still, that you keep guard at her 
door, in short — everything you can think of ; but 
you should know that she talks about vou pub- 
licly. ” 

I have never been able to lie, for whenever I 
have tried to disguise the truth my face be- 
trayed me. Amour propre , the shame of con- 
fessing my weakness before witnesses induced 
me, however, to make the effort. “It is very 


94 


THE CONFESSION OF 


true that I was in the street,” I thought, “but 
if I had known that my mistress was as bad as 
she was, I would not have been there.” 

Finally I persuaded myself that I had not 
been seen distinctly; I attempted to deny it. 
A deep blush suffused my face and I felt the 
futility of my feint. Desgenais smiled. 

“Take care,” said he, "take care, do not go 
too far.” 

"But,” I protested, “how did I know it, how 
could I know — ” 

Desgenais compressed his lips as though to 
say : 

“You knew enough." 

I stopped short, mumbling the renjnant of my 
sentence. My blood became so hot that I could 
not continue. 

"I, in the street bathed in tears, in despair and 
during that time that encounter within ! What ! 
that very night! Mocked by her! Surely Des- 
genais you are dreaming. Is it true? Can it 
be possible? What do you know about it?” 

Thus talking haphazard, I lost my head, and 
an irresistable feeling of wrath began to rise 
within me. Finally I sat down exhausted. 

“My friend,” said Desgenais, “do not take 
the thing so seriously. The solitary life you 
have been leading for the last two months has 
made you ill, I see you have need of distrac- 
tion. Come to supper with me this evening and 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


95 


to-morrow morning we will go to the country.” 

The tone in which he said this hurt me more 
than anything else ; in vain I tried to control 
myself. “Yes,” I thought, “deceived by that 
woman, poisoned by horrible suggestions, hav- 
ing no refuge either in work or in fatigue, hav- 
ing for my only safe-guard against despair and 
ruin, a sacred but frightful grief. O, God! it 
is that grief, that sacred relic of my sorrow 
that has just crumbled in my hands! It is no 
longer my love, it is my despair that is insulted. 
Mockery! She mocks at me as I weep!” That 
appeared incredible to me. All the memories 
of the past clustered about my heart when I 
thought of it. I seemed to see one after the 
other, the spectres of our nights of love ; they 
hung over a bottomless eternal abyss, black as 
chaos, and from the bottom of that abyss there 
burst forth a shriek of laughter, sweet but mock- 
ing that said: “Behold your reward!” 

If I had been told that the world mocked at 
me I would have replied : “So much the worse 
for it,” and I would not be angry; but at the 
same time I was told that my mistress was a 
shameless wretch. Thus, on one side, the ridi- 
cule was public, vouched for, stated by two wit- 
nesses who, before telling what they knew, must 
have felt that the world was against me; and, 
on the other hand, what reply could I make? 
How could I escape? What could I do when 


9 6 


THE CONFESSION OF 


the centre of my life, my heart itself was ruined, 
killed, annihilated. What could I say when 
that woman for whom I had braved all, ridicule 
as well as blame, for whom I had borne a 
mountain of misery, when that woman whom I 
loved and who loved another, of whom I de- 
manded no love, of whom I desired nothing but 
permission to weep at her door, no favor but 
that of vowing my youth to her memory and 
writing her name, her name alone, on the tomb 
of my hopes! Ah! when I thought of it, I felt 
the hand of death heavy upon me ; that woman 
mocked me, it was she who first pointed her 
finger at me, singling me out to the idle crowd 
which surrounded her; it was she, it was those 
lips so many times pressed to mine, it was that 
body, that soul of my life, my flesh and my 
blood, it was from that source the injury came ; 
yes, the last of all, the most cowardly and the 
most bitter, the pitiless laugh that spits in the 
face of grief. 

The more I thought of it the more enraged I 
became. Did I say enraged? I do not know 
what passion controlled me. What I do know 
is that an inordinate desire for vengeance took 
possession of me. How could I revenge myself 
on a woman? I would have paid any price for 
a weapon that could be used against her. But 
I had none, not even the one she had employed; 
I could not pay her in her own coin. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


97 


Suddenly I noticed a shadow moving behind 
the curtain before the closet. I had forgotten 
her. 

“Listen to me!” I cried, rising, “I have loved, 
I have loved like a fool. I deserve all the ridi- 
cule you have subjected me to. But, by Hea- 
ven ! I will show you something that will prove 
to you that I am not such a fool as you think.” 

With these words I pulled aside the curtain 
and exposed the interior of the closet. The 
girl was trying to conceal herself in a corner. 

“Go in, if you choose,” I said to Desgenais; 
"you who call me a fool for loving a woman, 
see how your teaching has affected me. Do you 
think I passed last night under the windows 

of ? But that is not all,” I added, “that is 

not all I have to say. You give a supper to- 
night and to-morrow go to the country ; I am 
with you, and shall not leave you from now 
on. We shall not separate but pass the entire 
day together. Are you with me? Agreed! I 
have tried to make of my heart the mausoleum 
of my love, but I will bury my love in another 
tomb. " 

With these words I sat down, marveling how 
indignation can solace grief and restore hap- 
piness. Whoever is astonished to learn that 
from that day, I completely changed my course 
of life does not know the heart of man, and 
he does not understand that a young man of 
7 


98 


THE CONFESSION OF 


twenty may hesitate before taking a step but 
does not retreat when he has once taken it. 


CHAPTER II 

The apprenticeship to debauchery resembles 
vertigo, for one feels at first a sort of terror 
mingled with sensuous delight as though peer- 
ing down from some giddy height. While 
shameful secret dissipation ruins the noblest 
of men, in frank and open irregularities there 
is some palliation even for the most depraved. 
He who goes at nightfall, muffled in his cloak, 
to sully his life incognito, and to clandestinely 
shake off the hypocrisy of the day, resembles 
an Italian who strikes his enemy from behind, 
not daring to provoke him to open quarrel. 
There are assassinations in the dark corners of 
the city under shelter of the night. He who 
goes his way without concealment says: “Every 
one does it and conceals it ; I do it and do not 
conceal it.” Thus speaks pride and once that 
cuirass has been buckled on, it glitters with 
the refulgent light of day. 

It is said that Damocles saw a sword sus- 
pended over his head. Thus libertines seem 
to have something over their heads which says : 
“Go on, but I hold the thread.” Those masked 
carriages that are seen during carnival are the 
faithful images of their life. A dilapidated open 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


99 


wagon, flaming torches lighting up painted 
faces ; such laugh and sing. Among them you see 
what appears to be women ; they are in fact 
the remains of women, with human semblance. 
They are caressed and insulted; no one knows 
who they are or what their names. All that 
floats and staggers under the flaming torch in 
an intoxication that thinks of nothing, and over 
which, it is said, a god watches. 

But if the first impression is astonishment, 
the second is horror and the third pity. There 
is displayed there so much force or rather such 
an abuse of force, that it often happens that 
the noblest characters and the strongest consti- 
tutions are ruined. It appears hardy and dan- 
gerous to these ; they would make prodigies of 
themselves; the}' bind themselves to debauch- 
ery as did Mazeppa to his horse ; they gallop, 
they make Centaurs of themselves and they see 
neither the bloody trail that the shreds of their 
flesh leave, nor the eyes of the wolves that 
gleam in hungry pursuit, nor the desert, nor the 
vultures. 

Launched into that life by the circumstances 
that I have recounted, I must now describe 
what I saw there. 

The first time I had a close view of one of 
those famous gatherings called theatrical 
masked balls I heard the debauchery of the Re- 
gency spoken of, and the time when a queen of 


IOO 


THE CONFESSION OF 


France was disguised as a flower merchant. I 
found there flower merchants disguised as camp- 
followers. I expected to find libertinism there, 
but in fact I found none at all. It is only the 
scum of libertinism, some blows and drunken 
women lying in deathlike stupor on broken 
bottles. 

The first time I saw debauchery at table I 
heard of the suppers of Heliogabolus and of the 
philosophy of Greece which made the pleasure 
of the senses a kind of religion of nature. I 
expected to find oblivion or something like 
joy; I found there the worst thing in the world, 
ennui trying to live, and an Englishman who 
said : "I do this or that, therefore I amuse my- 
self. I have spent so many pieces of gold, 
therefore I experience so much pleasure.” And 
they wear out their life on that grind-stone. 

The first time I saw courtesans I heard of 
Aspasia who sat on the knees of Alcibiades 
while discussing philosophy with Socrates. I 
expected to find something bold and insolent, 
but gay, free, and vivacious, something of the 
sparkle of champagne ; I found a yawning 
mouth, a fixed eye and hooked hands. 

The first ti*me I saw titled courtesans I read 
Boccacio and Andello ; tasting of everything, 
I read Shakespeare. I had dreamed of those 
beautiful triflers ; of those cherubim of hell. A 
thousand times I had drawn those heads so 


A CHILD OF THE CEtfTVRY ioi 

poetically foolish, so enterprising in audacity, 
heads of hare-brained mistresses who spoil a 
romance with a glance and who walk through 
life by waves and by shocks like the undulat- 
ing sirens; I thought of the fairies of the modern 
tales who are always drunk with love if not 
with wine. I found, instead, writers of letters, 
arrangers of precise hours. who practice lying 
as an art and cloak their baseness under hypoc- 
risy, whose only thought is to give themselves 
and forget. 

The first time I looked on the gaming table I 
heard of floods of gold, of fortunes made in the 
quarter of an hour, and of a lord of the court 
of Henry IV., who won on one card a hundred 
thousand louis. I found a narrow room where 
workmen who had but one shirt, rented a suit 
for the evening for twenty sous, police stationed 
at the door and starving wretches staking a 
crust of bread against a pistol shot. 

The first time I saw an assembly, public or 
other, open to one of those thirty thousand 
women who are permitted to sell themselves 
in Paris, I heard of the saturnalia of all times, 
of every imaginable orgy, from Babylon to 
Rome, from the temple of Priapus .to the Parc- 
oux-Cerfs, and I have always seen written on 
the sill of that door the word, “Pleasure.” I 
found nothing suggestive of pleasure but in its 
place the word, “Prostitution;” and it has al- 


102 


THE CONFESSION OF 


ways appeared ineffaceable, not graven in that 
metal that takes the sun’s light, but in the 
palest of all, that of the cold light whose 
colors seem tinted by the sombre hues of night, 
silver. 

The first time I saw the people — it was a 
frightful morning of Ash Wednesday, near 
Courtille. A cold fine rain had been falling 
since the evening before; the streets were 
covered with pools of water. Masked carriages 
filed hither and thither, crowding between 
hedges of hideous men and women standing 
on the sidewalks. That sinister wall of spec- 
tators had tiger eyes, red with wine, gleaming 
with hatred. The carriage wheels splashed 
mud over this wall, but it did not move. I 
was standing on the front seat of an open car- 
riage ; from time to time a man in rags would 
step out from the wall, hurl a torrent of abuse 
at us, then cover us with a cloud of flour. Mud 
would soon follow; yet we kept on our way 
toward the Isle of Love and the pretty wood 
of Romainville consecrated by so many sweet 
kisses. One of my friends fell from his seat 
into the mud, narrowly escaping death on the 
paving. The people threw themselves on him 
to overpower him and we were obliged to hasten 
to his assistance. One of the trumpeters who 
preceded us on horseback was struck on the 
shoulder by a paving stone ; the flour had given 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


103 


out. I had never heard of anything like that. 

I began to understand the time and compre- 
hend the spirit of the age. 


CHAPTER III 

Desgenais had planned for a reunion of young 
people at his country house. The best wines, a 
splendid table, gaming, dancing, hunting, noth- 
ing was lacking. Desgenais was rich and gen- 
erous. He combined antique hospitality with 
modern custom. Moreover one could always 
find in his house the best books; his conversa- 
tion was that of a man of learning and cul- 
ture. He was a problem. 

I took with me a taciturn humor that noth- 
ing could overcome; he respected it scrupu- 
lously. I did not reply to his questions and he 
dropped the subject ; he was satisfied that I 
had forgotten my mistress. Nevertheless, I 
went to the chase and appeared at the table 
and was as convivial as the best; he asked no 
more. 

One of the most unfortunate proclivities of 
inexperienced youth is to judge of the world 
from first impressions ; but it must be con- 
fessed that there is a race of men who are 
very unfortunate ; it is that race which says to 
youth : "You are right in believing in evil, and 
we know what it is.” I have heard, for exam- 


i 


104 THE CONFESSION OF 

pie, a curious thing spoken of, a medium be- 
tween good and evil, a certain arrangement be- 
tween heartless women and men worthy of them ; 
they call love the passing sentiment. They 
speak of it as of an engine constructed by a 
wagon builder or a building contractor. They 
said to me : “This and that are agreed upon, 
such and such phrases are spoken and certain 
others are repeated in reply ; letters are written 
in a prescribed manner, the knees adjusted in 
a certain attitude." All that was regulated as 
a parade; these fine fellows had-gray hair. 

That made me laugh. Unfortunately for me 
I can not tell a woman whom I despise that I 
love her, even when I know that it is only a 
convention and that she will not be deceived 
by it. I have never bent my knee to the ground 
when my heart did not go with it. So that 
class of women known as easy is unknown to 
me, or if I allow myself to be taken with them, 
it is without knowing it, and through simplic- 
ity. 

I can understand that one’s soul can be put 
aside but not that it should be handled. That 
there is some pride in this, I confess, but I do 
not intend either to boast or to lower myself. 
Above all things I hate those women who laugh 
at love and I permit them to reciprocate the sen- 
timent; there will never be any dispute between 
us. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


105 


Such women are beneath the courtesans, for 
courtesans may lie as well as they ; but cour- 
tesans are capable of love and those women are 
not. I remember a woman who loved me and 
who said to a man many times richer than I 
with whom she was living : “I am weary of you, 

I am going to my lover.” That woman is 
worth more than many others who are not de- 
spised by society. 

I passed the entire season with Desgenais, 
and learned that my mistress had left France; 
that news left in my heart a feeling of languor 
which I could not overcome. 

At the sight of that world which surrounded 
me, so new to me, I experienced at first a kind 
of bizarre curiosity, at once sad and profound, 
that caused me to look at things as does a rest- 
less horse. An incident occurred which made 
a deep impression on me. 

Desgenais had with him a very beautiful mis- 
tress who loved him much. One evening as I 
was walking with him I told him that I con- 
sidered her such as she was, that is to say, ad- 
mirable, as much on account of her attachment 
for him as because of her beauty. In short I 
praised her highly and with warmth, giving 
him to understand that he ought to be happy. 

He made no reply. It was his manner, for 
he was the driest of men. That night when 
all had retired and I had been in bed some fif- 


106 THE CONFESSION OF 

teen minutes I heard a knock at my door. I 
supposed it was some one of my friends who 
could not sleep and invited him to enter. 

There appeared before my astonished eyes 
a woman, very pale, carrying a bouquet in her 
hands to which was attached a piece of paper 
bearing these words : “To Octave, from his 
friend Desgenais. ” 

I had no sooner read these words when a 
flash of light came to me. I understood the 
meaning of this action of Desgenais in making 
me this Turk’s gift. It was intended for a les- 
son in love. That woman loved him, I had 
praised her and he wished to tell me that I ought 
not to love her, whether I refused her or accept- 
ed her. 

That made me think. The poor woman was 
weeping and did not dare dry her tears for fear 
I would see them. What threat had he used 
to make her come? I did not know. I said to 
her : 

“You may return and fear nothing.” 

She replied that if she should return Des- 
genais would send her back to Paris. 

“Yes,” I replied, “you are beautiful and I 
am susceptible to temptation, but you weep, 
and your tears not being shed for me, I care 
nothing for the rest. Go, therefore, and I will 
see to it that you are not sent back to Paris." 

One of my peculiarities is that meditation, 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


107 


which with the great number is a firm and con- 
stant quality of the mind, is in my case, an 
instinct independent of the will and it seizes 
me like a access of passion. It comes to me 
at intervals in its own good time, in spite of me 
and in almost any place. But when it comes 
I can do nothing against it. It takes me whither 
it pleases by whatever route seems good to it. 

When the woman had left, I sat up. 

“My friend,” I said to myself, “behold what 
has been sent you. If Desgenais had not seen 
fit to send you his mistress he would not have 
been mistaken, perhaps in supposing that you 
might fall in love with her. 

“Have you well considered it? A sublime and 
divine mystery is accomplished. Such a being 
costs nature the most vigilant maternal care ; 
yet man who would cure you, can think of 
nothing better than to offer you lips which be- 
long to him in order to teach you how to cease 
to love. 

“How was it accomplished? Others than you 
have doubtless admired her, but they ran no 
risk. She might employ all the seduction she 
pleased ; you alone were in danger. 

“It must be that Desgenais has a heart since 
he lives. In what respect does he differ from 
you. He is a man who believes in nothing, 
fears nothing, who knows no care or ennui, 
perhaps, and yet it is clear that a scratch on the 


io8 THE CONFESSION OF 

finger would fill him with terror, for if his 
body abandons him, what becomes of him ? He 
lives only in the body. What sort of creature 
is that who treats his soul as the flagellants 
treat their bodies? Can one live without a 
head? 

“Think of it. Here is a man who possesses 
the most beautiful woman in the world ; he is 
young and ardent ; he finds her beautiful and 
tells her so ; she replies that she loves him. 
Some one touches him on the shoulder and 
says to him: ‘She is unfaithful . ’ Nothing 
more, he is sure of himself. If some one had 
said: ‘She is a poisoner,’ he would, perhaps 
have continued to love her, he would not have 
given her a kiss less ; but she is unfaithful and 
it is no more a question of love with him than 
of the star of Saturn. 

“What is there in that word? A word that 
is merited, positive, withering, it is agreed. 
But why? It is still but a word. Can you kill 
a body with a word? 

“And if you love that body? Some one pours 
a glass of wine and says to you: ‘Do not love 
that for you can get four for six francs/ And 
if you become intoxicated? 

“But that Desgenais loves his mistress since 
he keeps her ; he must, therefore, have a pecu- 
liar fashion of loving? No, he has not; his 
fashion of loving is not love and he cares no 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY log 

more for the woman who merits affection than 
for her who is unworthy. He loves no one, 
simply and truly. 

“What has led him to that? Was he born 
thus? To love is as natural as to eat and to 
drink. He is not a man. Is he a dwarf or a 
giant? What! always that impassive body? 
Upon what does he feed, what brew does he 
drink? Behold him at thirty as old as the sen- 
ile Mithridates; the poisons of vipers are his 
familiar friends. 

“There is the great secret, my cjiild, the key 
to which you must seize. By whatever pro- 
cess of reasoning debauchery may be defended, 
it will be proven that it is natural at a given 
day, hour or evening, but not to-morrow nor 
every day. There is not a people on earth 
which has not considered woman either the 
companion and consolation of man or the sacred 
instrument of life, and has not under these 
two forms honored her. And yet here is an 
armed warrior who leaps into the abyss that 
God has dug with his own hands between man 
and brute; as well might he deny the fact. 
What mute Titan is this who dares repress 
under the kisses of the body the love of the 
thought, and place on human lips, the stigma 
of the brute, the seal of eternal silence? 

“There is a word that should be studied. 
There breathes under the wind of those dismal 


no 


THE CONFESSION OF 


forests that are called secrets of the body, one 
of those mysteries that the angels of destruc- 
tion whisper in the ear of night as it descends 
upon the earth. That man is better or worse 
than God has made him. His bowels are like 
those of sterile women, where nature has not 
completed her work, or there is distilled in the 
shadow some venomous poison. 

“Ah! yes, neither occupation nor study have 
been able to cure you, my friend. To forget 
and to learn, that is your device. You finger 
the leaves of dead books ; you are too young 
for ruins. Look about you, the pale herd of 
men surrounds you. The eyes of the sphynx 
glitter in the midst of divine hieroglyphics ; 
decipher the book of life! Courage, scholar, 
launch out on the Styx, the invulnerable flood, 
and let the waves of sorrow waft you to death 
or to God.” 


CHAPTER IV 

“All there was of good in that, supposing 
there was some good in it, was that false pleas- 
ures were the seeds of sorrow 7 and of bitterness 
which fatigued me to the point of exhaustion.” 
Such are the simple words spoken with refer- 
ence to his youth by that man who was the 
most a man of any who have lived, Saint 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


hi 


Augustine. Of those who have done as I, 
few would say those words, all have them in 
their hearts; I have found no others in mine. 

Returning to Paris in the month of Decem- 
ber I passed the winter attending pleasure par- 
ties, masquerades, suppers, rarely leaving Des- 
genais who was delighted with me ; I was not 
with him. The more I went about, the more 
unhappy I became. It seemed to me that after 
a short enough time that the world which had 
at first appeared so strange, would tie me up, 
so to speak, at every step; where I had ex- 
pected to see a spectre, I discovered, upon 
closer inspection, a shadow. 

Desgenais asked what was the matter with 
me. 

"And you?” I asked. "What is the matter 
with you? You have lost some relative? Or 
do you suffer from some wound?" 

At times he seemed to understand me and 
did not question me. We sat down before a 
table and drank until we lost our heads ; in 
the middle of the night we took horses and 
rode ten or twelve leagues into the country; re- 
turning we went to the bath, then to table, then 
to gambling, then to bed ; and when I reached 
mine, I fell on my knees and wept. That was 
my evening prayer. 

Strange to say I took pride in passing for 
what I was not, I boasted of being worse than 


1 12 


THE CONFESSION OF 


I really was, and experienced a sort of melan- 
choly pleasure in doing so. When I had ac- 
tually done what I claimed, I felt nothing but 
ennui , but when I invented an account of some 
folly, some story of debauchery or recital of an 
orgy with which I had nothing to do, it seemed 
to me that my heart was better satisfied, al- 
though I know not why. 

Whenever I joined a party of pleasure-seek- 
ers and we visited some spot made sacred by 
tender associations I became stupid, went off 
by myself, looked gloomily at the trees and 
bushes as though I would like to crush them 
under my feet. Upon my return I would remain 
silent for hours. 

The baleful idea that truth is nudity beset 
me on every occasion. 

“The world,” I said to myself, "is accustomed 
to call his disguise virtue, his chaplet religion, 
his flowing mantle convenience. Honor and 
Morality are his chamber-maids ; he drinks in 
his wine the tears of the poor in spirit who 
believe in him ; while the sun is high in the 
heavens he walks about with downcast eye ; 
he goes to church, to the ball, to the assem- 
bly, and when evening has come he removes 
his mantle and there appears a naked bacchante 
with hoofs of a goat." 

But such thoughts aroused a feeling of hor- 
ror, for I felt that if the body was under the 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


ii3 


clothing, the skeleton was under the body. "Is 
it possible that that is all?” I asked in spite 
of myself. Then I returned to the city, I saw 
a little girl take her mother’s arm and I became 
like a child. 

Although I nad followed my friends into all 
manner of dissipation, I had no desire to re- 
sume my place in the world of society. The 
sight of women caused me intolerable pain ; 
I could not touch a woman’s hand without trem- 
bling. I had decided never to love again. 

Nevertheless I returned from the ball one 
evenning so sick at heart that I feared that it 
was love. I happened to have beside me at sup- 
per the most charming and the most distin- 
guished woman whom it had ever been my good 
fortune to meet. When I closed my eyes to sleep 
I saw her image before me. I thought I was 
lost, and I at once resolved that I would avoid 
meeting her again. A sort of fever seized me 
and I lay on my bed for fifteen days, repeating 
over and over the lightest words I had ex- 
changed with her. 

As there is no spot on earth where one is so 
well-known by his neighbors as at Paris, it was 
not long before people of my acquaintance who 
had seen me with Desgenais began to accuse 
me of being a great libertine. In that I admired 
the discernment of the world : in proportion as 
I had passed for inexperienced and sensitive at 


1 1 4 THE CONFESSION OF 

the time of my rupture with my mistress, I was 
now considered insensible and hardened. Some 
one had just told me that it was clear I had 
never loved that woman, that I had doubtless 
merely played at love, thereby paying me a 
compliment which I really did not deserve ; 
but the most of it was that I was so swollen 
with vanity that I was charmed with that view. 

My desire was to pass for blas&, even while 
I was filled with desires and my exalted imag- 
ination was carrying me beyond ail limits. I 
began to say that I could not make any head- 
way with the women ; my head was filled with 
chimeras which I preferred to realities. In short 
my unique pleasure consisted in altering the 
nature of facts. If a thought were but extraor- 
dinary, if it shocked common sense, I became 
its ardent champion at the risk of advocating 
the most dangerous sentiments. 

My greatest fault was imitation of everything 
that struck me, not by its beauty but by its 
strangeness, and not wishing to confess myself 
an imitator I resorted to exaggeration in order 
to appear original. According to my idea noth- 
ing was good or even tolerable ; nothing was 
worth the trouble of turning the head, and yet 
when I had become warmed up in a discussion 
it seemed as if there was no expression in the 
French language violent enough to sustain my 
cause; but my warmth would subside as soon 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


ii5 

as my opponents ranged themselves on my side. 

It was a natural consequence of my conduct. 
Although disgusted with the life I was leading 
I was unwilling to change it : 

Simigliante a quella ’nferma 
Che non puo trovar posa in su le piume, 

Ma con dar volta suo dolore scherma. — D ante. 

Thus I tortured my mind to give it change 
and I fell into all these vagaries in order to get 
out of myself. 

But while my vanity was thus occupied, my 
heart was suffering so that there was always 
within me a man who laughed and a man who 
wept. It was a perpetual counter-stroke be- 
tween my head and my heart. My own mock- 
eries frequently caused me great pain and my 
deepest sorrows aroused a desire to burst into 
laughter. 

One day a man boasted of being proof against 
superstitious fears, in fact fear of every kind; 
his friends put a human skeleton in his bed 
and then concealed themselves in an adjoining 
room to wait for his return. They did not 
hear any noise, but in the morning they found 
him dressed and sitting on the bed playing 
with the bones; he had lost his reason. 

There would be in me something that resem- 
bled that man but for the fact that my favorite 
bones were those of a well-beloved skeleton ; 


n6 THE CONFESSION OF 

they were the debris of my love, all that re- 
mained of the past. 

But it must not be supposed that there were 
no good moments in all this disorder. Among 
Desgenais’s companions were several young 
men of distinction, a number of artists. We 
sometimes passed together delightful evenings 
under pretext of being libertines. One of them 
was infatuated with a beautiful singer who 
charmed us with her fresh and melancholy 
voice. How many times we sat listening while 
supper was served and waiting ! How many 
times, when the flagons had been emptied, one 
of us held a volume of Lamartine and read in 
a voice choked by emotion ! Every other thought 
disappeared. The hours passed by unheeded. 
What strange libertines we were! We did not 
speak a word and there were tears in our eyes. 

Desgenais especially, habitually the coldest 
and driest of men, was inexplicable on such oc- 
casions; he delivered himself of such extraordi- 
nary sentiments that he might have been con- 
sidered a poet in delirium. But after these 
effusions he would be seized with furious joy. 
He would break everything within reach when 
warmed by wine ; the genius of destruction 
stalked forth armed to the teeth. I have seen 
him pick up a chair and hurl it through a closed 
window. 

I could not help making a study of that sing- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


117 

ular man. He appeared to me the marked 
type of a class which ought to exist somewhere 
but which was unknown to me. One could 
never tell whether his outbursts were the de- 
spair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a 
spoiled child. 

During the fete , in particular, he was in such 
a state of nervous excitation that he acted like 
a school-boy. He persuaded me to go out on 
foot with him one day, muffled in grotesque 
costumes, with masks and instruments of music. 
We promenaded gravely all night, in the midst 
of a most frightful din of horrible sounds. We 
found a driver asleep on his box and unhitched 
his horses; then pretending we had just come 
from the ball, set up a great cry. The coach- 
man started up, cracked his whip and his horses 
started off on a trot, leaving him seated on the 
box. The same evening we passed through the 
Cha?nps-Elystes\ Desgenais, -seeing another car 
riage passing stopped it after the manner of a 
highwayman; he intimidated the coachman by 
threats and forced him to climb down and lie 
flat on his stomach. He then opened the car- 
riage door and found within a young man and 
lady motionless with fright. Whispering to 
me to imitate him we began to enter one door 
and go out the other, so that in the obscurity 
the poor young people thought they saw a pro- 
cession of bandits going through their carriage. 


ii8 


THE CONFESSION OF 


As I understand it the men who say that the 
world gives experience ought to be astonished if 
they are believed. The world is merely a num- 
ber of whirlpools, each one whirling indepen- 
dent of the others ; they float about in groups 
like flocks of birds. There is no resemblence 
between the different quarter of the same city, 
and the denizen of the Chausle-d' Antin has as 
much to learn at Marais as at Lisbon. It is 
true that these whirlpools are traversed, and 
have been since the beginning of the world, by 
seven personages who are alway the same: 
the first is called hope ; the second, conscience ; 
the third, opinion ; the fourth desire ; the fifth, 
sorrow ; the sixth, pride ; and the seventh, man. 

We were, therefore, my companions and I, a 
flock of birds and we remained together until 
spring time, sometimes singing, sometimes fly- 
ing. 

“But,” the reader objects, “where are the 
women in all this? I see nothing of debauch- 
ery here.” 

Oh! creatures who bear the name of women 
and who have passed like dreams through a life 
that was itself a dream, what shall I say of you? 
Where there is no shadow of hope can there 
be memory? Where shall I seek for memory’s 
meed? What is there more dumb in human 
memory? What is there more completely for- 
gotten than 5^011? 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


119 

If I must speak of women I will mention two ; 
here is one of them : 

I ask what would be expected of a poor sew- 
ing-girl young and pretty, about eighteen, with 
a romantic affair on her hands that is purely a 
question of love; with little knowledge of life 
and no idea of morals ; eternally sewing near 
a window before which processions were not 
allowed to pass by order of the police, but near 
which a dozen women prowled who were licensed 
and recognized by these same police ; what could 
you expect of her, when after having tired her 
hands and eyes all day long on a dress or a 
hat, she leans out of that window as night 
falls? That dress she has sewed, that hat she 
has trimmed with her poor and honest hands 
in order to earn a supper for the household, she 
sees passing along the street on the head or on 
the body of a public woman. Thirty times a 
day a hired carriage stops before the door and 
there steps out a prostitute, numbered as is the 
hack in which she rides, who stands before a 
glass and primps, taking off and putting on the 
results of many days work on the part of the 
poor girl who watches her. She sees that wo- 
man draw from her pocket six pieces of gold, 
she who has but one a week; she looks at her 
feet and her head, she examines her dress and 
eyes her as she steps into her carriage; and 
then, what could you expect? When night 


120 


THE CONFESSION OF 


has fallen, after a day when work has been 
scarce, when her mother is sick, she opens her 
door, stretches out her hand and stops a passer- 
by. 

Such was the story of a girl I have known. 
She could play the piano, knew something of 
accounts, a little designing, even a little his- 
tory and grammar, and thus a little of every- 
thing. ,How many times have I regarded with 
poignant compassion that sad sketch made by 
nature and mutilated by society! How many 
times have I followed in the darkness the pale 
and vacillating gleams of a spark flickering in 
abortive life! How many times have I tried 
to revive the hre that smouldered under those 
ashes! Alas! her long hair was the color of 
ashes and we called her Cendrillon. 

I was not rich enough to help her ; Desgenais, 
at my request, interested himself in the poor crea- 
ture ; he made her learn over again all of which 
she had a slight knowledge. But she could 
make no appreciable progress. When her teach- 
er left her she would fold her arms and for 
hours look silently across the public square. 
What days! What misery! One day I threat- 
ened that if she did not work she should have 
no money ; she silently resumed her task and I 
learned that she stole out of the house a few 
minutes later. Where did she go? God knows. 
Before she left I asked her to embroider a 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


121 


purse for me. I still have that sad relic, it 
hangs in my room a monument of the ruin that 
is wrought here below. 

But here is another case. 

It was about ten in the evening when, after 
a riotous day, we repaired to Desgenais, who 
had left us some hours before to make his pre- 
parations. The orchestra was ready and the 
room filled when we arrived. 

Most of the dancers were girls from the thea- 
tres. As soon as we entered I plunged into the 
giddy whirl of the waltz. That delightful exer- 
cise has always been dear to me ; I know of noth- 
ing more beautiful, more worthy of a beautiful 
woman and a young man ; all dances compared 
with the waltz are but insipid conventions or 
pretexts for insignificant converse. It is truly to 
possess a woman, in a certain sense, to hold her 
for a half hour in your arms, and to draw her 
on in the dance, palpitating in spite of herself, 
in such a way that it can not be positively as- 
serted whether she is being protected or se- 
duced. Some deliver themselves up to the 
pleasure with such modest voluptuousness, with 
such sweet and pure abandon that one does not 
know whether he experiences desire or fear, 
and whether, if pressed to the heart they would 
faint or break in pieces like the rose. Germany, 
where that dance was invented, is surely the 
land of love. 


122 


THE CONFESSION OF 


I held in my arms a superb danseuse from an 
Italian theatre who had come to Paris for the 
carnival; she wore the costume of a Bacchante 
with a dress of panther’s skin. Never have I 
seen anything so languishing as that creature. 
She was tall and slender, and while dancing 
with extreme rapidity, had the appearance of 
allowing herself to be led; to see her one would 
think that she would tire her partner, but such 
was not the case for she moved as though by 
enchantment. 

On her bosom rested an enormous bouquet, 
the perfume of which intoxicated me. She 
yielded to my encircling arms as does the In- 
dian liana, with a gentleness so sweet and so 
sympathetic that I seemed surrounded with a 
perfumed veil of silk. At each turn there could 
be heard a light tinkling from her metal girdle ; 
she moved so gracefully that I thought I be- 
held a beautiful star and her smile was that of 
a fairy about to vanish from human sight. The 
tender and voluptuous music of the dance 
seemed to come from her lips, while her head, 
covered with a wilderness of black tresses, bent 
backward as though her neck was too slender 
to support its weight. 

When the waltz was over I threw myself on 
a chair; my heart beat wildly: “Oh! heaven!” 
I murmured, “how can it be possible? Oh! 
superb monster ! Oh! beautiful reptile ! How 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


123 


you writhe, how you coil in and out, sweet 
adder, with supple and spotted skin! Thy 
cousin the serpent has taught thee to coil about 
the tree of life holding between thy lips the 
apple of temptation. Oh! Melusina ! Melu- 
sina! The hearts of men are thine. You know 
it well, enchantress, with your soft languor that 
seems to suspect nothing! You know very well 
that you ruin, that }'ou destroy, you know that 
he who touches you will suffer; you know that 
he dies who basks in your smile, who breathes 
the perfume of your flowers and comes under the 
magic influence of your charms; that is why 
you abandon yourself so freely, that is why 
your smile is so sweet, your flowers so fresh; 
that is why you so gently place your arms on 
our shoulders. Oh! heaven! what is your will 
with us? M 

Professor Halle has said a terrible thing: 
"Woman is the nervous part of humanity, man 
the muscular. ” Humboldt himself, that seri- 
ous thinker, has said that an invisible atmos- 
phere surrounds the human nerves. I do not 
quote the dreamers who watch the flight of 
Spallanzani’s bat, and who think they have 
found a sixth sense in nature. Such as nature 
is, her mysteries are terrible enough, her powers 
mighty enough, that nature which creates us, 
mocks at us, and kills us, without deepening 
the shadows that surround us. But where is the 


124 


THE CONFESSION OF 


man who has lived who will deny woman’s 
power over us, if he has ever taken leave of a 
beautiful dancer with trembling hands. If he 
has ever felt that indefinable enervating mag- 
netism which, in the midst of the dance, under 
the influence of the sound of music, and the 
warmth that makes all else seem cold, that comes 
from a young woman, that electrifies her and leaps 
from her to him as the perfume of aloes from 
the swinging censer? I was struck with stu- 
por. I was familiar with a certain sensation 
similar to drunkeness which characterizes love ; 
I knew that it was the aureole which crowned 
the well-beloved. But that she should excite 
such heart-throbs, that she should evoke such 
phantoms with nothing but her beauty, her 
flowers, her motley costume, and a certain trick 
of turning she had learned from some merry 
Andrew; and that without a word, without a 
thought, without even appearing to know it! 
What was chaos if it required seven days to 
transform it? 

It was not love, however, that I felt, and I 
do not know how to describe it unless I call 
it thirst. For the first time I felt vibrating in 
my body a cord that was not attuned to my 
heart. The sight of that beautiful animal had 
aroused a responsive roar from another animal 
in my bowels. I felt sure I would never tell 
that woman that I loved her or that she pleased 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


125 


me or even that she was beautiful ; there was 
nothing on my lips but a desire to kiss her, 
and say to her: '‘Make a girdle of those list- 
less arms and lean that head on my breast; 
place that sweet smile on my lips.” My body 
loved hers, I was under the influence of beauty 
as of wine. 

Desgenais passed and asked what I was doing 
there. 

“Who is that woman?” I asked. 

“What woman? Of whom do you speak?" 

I took his arm and led him into the hall. 
The Italian saw us coming and smiled. I 
stopped and stepped back. 

“Ah!” said Desgenais, “you have danced with 
Marco?” 

“Who is Marco?” I asked. 

“Why, that idle creature who is laughing 
over there. Does she please you?” 

“No," I replied, “I have waltzed with her 
and wanted to know her name ; I have no fur- 
ther interest in her.” 

Shame led me to speak thus, but when Des 
genais turned away I followed him. 

“You are very prompt,” he said, “Marco is 
no ordinary woman. She was almost the wife 

of M. de , ambassador to Milan. One of 

his friends brought her here. Yet, ” he added, 
“you may rest assured I shall speak to her. 
We shall not allow you to die so long as there 


126 


THE CONFESSION OF 


is any hope for you or any resource left untried. 
It is possible that she will remain to supper.” 

He left me and I was alarmed to see him 
approach her. But they were soon lost in the 
crowd. 

“Is it possible,” I murmured, “have I come 
to this? Oh! heavens ! is this what I am going 
to love? But after all,” I thought, “my senses 
have spoken but not my heart.” 

Thus I tried to calm myself. A few minutes 
later Desgenais tapped me on the shoulder. 

“We shall go to supper at once,” said he. 
“You will give your arm to Marco; she knows 
that she has pleased you and it is all arranged. ” 

“Listen," I said; “I hardly know what I ex- 
perienced. It seems to me I see limping Vul- 
can covering Venus with kisses while his beard 
smokes with the fumes of the forge. He fixes 
his affrighted eyes on the dazzling skin of his 
prey. His happiness in the possession of his 
prize causes him to laugh for joy, and at the 
same time shudder with happiness, and then he 
remembers his father, Jupiter, who is seated up 
on high among the gods.” 

Desgenais looked at me but made no reply ; 
taking me by the arm he led me away. 

“I am tired,” he said, “and I am sad; this 
noise wearies me. Let us go to supper, that 
will refresh us.” 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


127 


The supper was splendid but I could not 
touch it. 

"What is the matter with you?” asked Marco. 

But I sat like a statue, making no reply and 
looking at her from head to foot with amaze- 
ment. 

She began to laugh and Desgenais, who could 
see us from his table joined her. Before her was 
a large crystal glass cut in the shape of a chalice 
which reflected the glittering lights on its thou- 
sand sparkling facets, shining like the prism 
and revealing the seven colors of the rainbow. 
She listlessly extended her arm and filled it to 
the brim with Cyprian and a sweetened Orien- 
tal wine which I afterward found so bitter on 
the deserted Lido. 

"Here,” she said, presenting it to me, " per 
voi , bambino mio. ” 

"For you and for me,” I said presenting her 
my glass in turn. 

She moistened her lips while I emptied my 
glass, unable to conceal the sadness she seemed 
to read in my eyes. 

"Is it not good? she asked. 

"No,” I replied. 

"Perhaps your headaches?” 

"No.' 

"Or you are tired?” 

"No.” 

"Ah! then it is the ennui of love?” 


128 


THE CONFESSION OF 


With these words she became serious for in 
spite of herself, in speaking of love, her Italian 
heart beat the faster. 

A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becom- 
ing heated, cheeks were assuming that purple 
hue with which wine colors the face as though 
to prevent shame from appearing there ; a con- 
fused murmur like to that of a rising sea could 
be heard all over the room, here and there eyes 
would become inflamed, then fixed and empty ; 
I know not what wind stirred above this drunk- 
eness. A woman rose, as in a tranquil sea the 
a first wave that feels the tempest’s breath, 
and rises to anonunce it ; she makes a sign with 
her hand to command silence, empties her glass 
at a gulp and with the same movement undoes 
her hair which falls in shining tresses over her 
shoulders ; she opens her mouth as though to 
start a drinking song; her eyes were half closed. 
She breathed with an effort ; twice a harsh 
sound came from her throat ; a mortal pallor 
overspread her features and she dropped into 
her chair. 

Then came an uproar which lasted an hour. 
It was impossible to distinguish anything, 
either laughter, songs or cries. 

“What do you think of it?” asked Desgenais. 

“Nothing,” I replied. “I have stopped my 
ears and am looking at it. ” 

In the midst of that Bacchanal the beautiful 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


129 


Marco remained mute, drinking nothing and 
leaning quietly on her bare arm. She seemed 
neither astonished, nor affected by it. 

“Do you not wish to do as they?” I asked. 
“You have just offered me Cyprian wine ; why 
do you not drink some yourself.” 

With these words I poured out a large glass 
full to the brim. She raised it to her lips and 
then placed it on the table, and resumed her 
listless attitude. 

The more I studied that Marco, the more sin- 
gular she appeared ; she took pleasure in noth- 
ing and did not seem to be annoyed by any- 
thing. It appeared as difficult to anger her as 
to please her; she did what was asked of her 
but no more. I thought of the genius of eter- 
nal repose, and I imagined that if that pale 
statue should become somnambulant it would 
resemble Marco. 

“Are you good or bad?” I asked. “Are you 
sad or gay? Are you loved? Do you wish to 
be loved? Are you fond of money, of pleasure, 
of what? Horses, the country, balls? What 
pleases you? Of what are you dreaming?” 

To all these questions the same smile on her 
part, a smile that expressed neither joy nor sor- 
row, but which seemed to say, “What does it 
matter?” and nothing more. 

I held my lips to hers; she gave me a list- 
9 


THE CONFESSION OF 


130 

less kiss and then passed her handkerchief over 
her mouth. 

“Marco, " I said, “woe to him who loves you.” 

She turned her dark eyes on me, then turned 
them upward, and raising her finger with that 
Italian gesture which can not be imitated, she 
pronounced that characteristic feminine word 
of her country : 

“ For se/" 

And then dessert was served. Some of the 
party had departed, some were smoking, others 
gambling, and a few still at table ; some of the 
women , danced, others slept. The orchestra 
returned ; the candles paled and others were 
lighted. I recalled a supper of Petronius where 
the lights went out around the drunken masters 
and the slaves entered and stole the silver. All 
the while songs were being sung in various 
parts of the room, and three Englishmen, three 
of those gloomy figures for whom the conti- 
nent is a hospital, kept up a most sinister bal- 
lad that must have been born of the fogs of 
their marshes. 

“Come,” said I to Marco, “let us go." 

She arose and took my arm. 

“To-morrow!” cried Desgenais to me, as we 
left the hall. 

When approaching Marco’s house, my heart 
beat violently and I could not speak. I could 
not understand such a woman; she seemed 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


131 

to experience neither desire nor disgust, and 
could think of nothing but the fact that my 
hand was trembling and hers motionless. 

Her room was, like her, sombre and volup- 
tuous ; it was dimly lighted by an alabaster 
lamp. The chairs and sofa were as soft as beds, 
and there was everywhere suggestion of down 
and silk. Upon entering 1 was struck with the 
strong odor of Turkish pastilles, not such as 
are sold here on the streets, but those of Con- 
stantinople, which are more nervous and more 
dangerous. She rang and a maid appeared. She 
entered an alcove without a word and a few 
minutes later, I saw her leaning on her elbow 
in her habitual attitude of nonchalance. 

I stood looking at her. Strange to say the 
more I admired her, the more beautiful I found 
her, the more rapidly I felt my desires subside. 
I do not know whether it was some magnetic 
influence or her silence and listlessness. I lay 
down on a sofa opposite the alcove and the 
coldness of death settled on my soul. 

The pulsation of the blood in the arteries is 
a sort of clock, the ticking of which can be 
heard only at night. Man, abandoned by exte- 
rior objects, falls back upon himself ; he hears 
himself live. In spite of my fatigue I could 
not close my eyes; those of Marco were fixed 
on me ; we looked at each other in silence, 
gently, so to speak. 


132 


THE- CONFESSION OF 


“What are you doing there?” she asked. 

She heaved a gentle sigh that was almost a 
plaint. I turned my head and saw that first 
gleams of morning light were shining through 
the window. 

I arose and opened the window ; a bright 
light penetrated every corner of the room. The 
sky was clear. 

I motioned to her to wait. Considerations 
of prudence had led her to choose an apartment 
some distance from the center of the city; per- 
haps she had other quarters for she sometimes 
received a number of visitors. Her lover’s 
friends sometimes visited her and this room was 
doubtless onty a petite maison ; it overlooked 
the Luxembourg the garden of which extended 
as far as my eye could reach. 

As a cork held under water seems restless 
under the hand which holds it, and slips through 
the fingers to rise to the surface, thus there 
stirred in me a sentiment that I could neither 
overcome nor escape. The garden of the Lux- 
embourg made my heart leap and banished 
every other thought. How many times had I 
stretched out on one of those little mounds, 
a sort of sylvan school, while I read in the cool 
shade some book filled with foolish poetry ! 
For such, alas! were the debauches of my child- 
hood. I saw many souvenirs of the past among 
those leafless trees and faded lawns. There, 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


133 


when ten years of age, I had walked with my 
brother and my tutor, throwing bits of bread 
to some of the poor benumbed birds ; there, 
seated under a tree, I had watched a group of 
little girls as they danced ; I felt my heart beat 
in unison with the refrain of their childish song; 
there, returning from school I had followed a 
thousand times the same path, lost in contem- 
plation of some verse of Virgil and kicking the 
pebbles at my feet. “Oh! my childhood! You 
are there!” I cried. “Oh! heaven! now I am 
here. ” 

I turned around. Marco was asleep, the lamp 
had gone out, the light of day had changed the 
aspect of the room ; the hangings which had 
at first appeared blue were now a faded yellow, 
and Marco, the beautiful statue, was livid as 
death. 

I shudderd in spite of myself; I looked at 
the alcove, then at the garden; my head became 
drowsy and fell on my breast. I sat down be- 
fore an open secretary near one of the windows. 
A piece of paper caught my eye ; it was an 
open letter and I looked at it mechanically. I 
read it several times before I thought what I 
was doing. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence 
came to me, although I could not understand 
everything. I picked up the paper and read 
what follows, written in an unskilled hand and 
filled with errors in spelling : 


134 


THE CONFESSION OF 


"She died yesterday. She began to fail at 
twelve the night before. She called me and 
said : ‘Louison, I am going to join my com- 
panion ; go to the closet and take down the 
cloth that hangs on a nail ; it is the mate of 
the other.’ I fell on my knees and wept, but 
she took my hand and said : ‘Do not weep, do 
not w^ep!’ And she heaved such a sigh — ” 

The rest was torn, I cannot describe the im- 
pression that sad letter made on me ; I turned 
it over and saw on the other side Marco’s ad- 
dress and the date that of the evening previ- 
ous. 

"Is she dead? Who is dead?" I cried going 
to the alcove. "Dead! Who?" 

Marco opened her eyes. She saw me with 
the lettter in my hand. 

“It is my mother,” she said, "who is dead. 
You are not coming?” 

As she spoke she extended her hand. 

"Silence!" I said, "sleep and leave me to 
myself. " 

She turned over and went to sleep. I looked 
at her for some time to assure myself that she 
would not hear me and then quietly left the 
house. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


i35 


CHAPTER V 

One evening I was seated before the fire with 
Desgenais. The window was open; it was one 
of the early days in March, a harbinger of 
Spring. It had been raining and a light odor 
came from the garden. 

“What shall we do this Spring?” I asked. 
“I do not care to travel.” 

“I shall do what I did last year, ” replied Des- 
gnais. “I shall go to the country when the 
time comes. 

“What!” I replied. “Do you do the same 
thing every year? Are you going to begin life 
over again this year?” 

“What would you expect me to do?” 

“What would I expect you to do?” I cried 
jumping to my feet. “That is just like you. 
Ah! Desgenais, how all this wearies me! Do 
you never tire of this sort of life?" 

“No,” he replied. 

I was standing before an engraving of the 
Madeleine. Involuntarily I joined my hands. 

“What are you doing?” asked Desgenais. 

“If I were an artist,” I replied, “and wished 
to represent melancholy, I would not paint a 
dreamy girl with a book in her hands.” 

“What is the matter with you this evening?” 
he asked smiling. 

“No, in truth," I continued, “that Madeleine in 


i 3 6 


THE CONFESSION OF 


tears has the spark of hope in her bosom ; that 
pale and sickly hand on which she supports 
her head, is still sweet with the perfume with 
which she annointed the feet of her Lord. You 
do not understand that in that desert there are 
thinking people who pray. This is not mel- 
ancholy. ” 

"It is a woman who reads,” he replied dryly, 

"And a happy woman,” I continued, "and a 
happy book.” 

Desgenais understood me ; he saw that a pro- 
found sadness had taken possession of me. He 
asked if I had some secret cause of sorrow. I 
hesitated, but did not reply. 

“My dear Octave,” he said, "if you have any 
trouble, do not hesitate to confide in me. Speak 
freely and you will find that I am your friend !” 

I know it,” I replied, "I know I have a friend; 
that is not my trouble.”' 

He urged me to explain. 

"But what will it avail,” I asked, "since 
neither of us can help matters? Do you want 
the bottom of my heart or merely a word and 
an excuse?” 

"Be frank !" he said. 

"Very well,” I replied, "you have seen fit to 
give me advice in the past and now I ask you 
to listen to me as I have listened to you. You 
ask what is in my heart and I am about to tell 
you. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


137 


“Take the first comer and say to him : ‘Here 
are people who pass their lives drinking, rid- 
ing, laughing, gambling, enjoying all kinds of 
pleasures; no barrier restrains them, their law 
is their pleasure, women are their playthings; 
they are rich. They have no cares, not one. 
All their days are days of feasting.’ What do 
you think of it? Unless that man happened to 
be a severe bigot he would probably reply that 
that was the greatest happiness that could be 
imagined. 

“Then take that man into the thick of the ac- 
tion, place him at a table with a woman on 
either side, a glass in his hand, a handful of 
gold every morning and say to him : ‘This is 
your life. While you sleep near your mistress, 
your horses neigh in the stables ; while you 
drive your horses along the boulevards, your 
wines are ripening in your vaults ; while you 
pass away the night drinking, the bankers are 
increasing your wealth. You have but to ex- 
press a wish and your desires are gratified. 
You are the happiest of men. But take care 
lest some night of carousal you drink too much 
and destroy the capacity of your body for en- 
joyment. That would be a serious misfortune, 
for all the ills that afflict human flesh can be 
cured, except that. You ride some night through 
the woods with joyous companions ; your horse 
falls and you are thrown into a ditch filled with 


1 38 THE CONFESSION OF 

mud, and it may be that your companions, in 
the midst of their happy fanfares will not hear 
your cry of anguish ; it may be that the sound 
of their trumpets will die away in the distance 
while you drag your broken limbs through the 
deserted forest. Some night you will lose at 
the gaming table ; fortune has its bad days. 
When you return to your home and are seated 
before the fire, do not strike your forehead with 
your hands, and do not allow sorrow to moisten 
your cheeks with tears, do not bitterly cast your 
eyes about here and there as though seeking 
for a friend; do not, under any circumstances, 
think of those who, under some thatched roof, 
enjoy a tranquil life and who sleep holding each 
other by the hand; for before you on your lux- 
urious bed will sit a pale creature who loves — 
your money. You will seek from her consola- 
tion for your grief and she will remark that you 
are very sad and ask if your loss was considera- 
ble ; the tears from your eyes will concern her 
deeply, for they may be the cause of allowing 
her dress to grow old or the rings to drop from 
her fingers. Do not name him who won your 
money that night for she may meet him on the 
morrow, and she may make sweet eyes at him 
that would destroy your remaining happiness. 
That is what is to be expected of human frailty ; 
have you the strength to endure it? Are you a 
man? Beware of disgust, it is an incurable 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


139 


evil; death is more to be desired than a living 
distaste for life. Have you a heart? Beware of 
love, for it is worse than disease for a debauchee 
and it is ridiculous. Debauchees pay their mis- 
tresses and the woman who sells herself has no 
right but that of contempt for the purchaser. 
Are you passionate? Take care of your face. 
It is shameful for a soldier to' throw down his 
arms and for a debauchee to appear to hold to 
anything; his glory consists in touching nothing 
except with hands of marble that have been 
bathed in oil in order that nothing may stick 
to them. Are you hot-headed? If you desire 
to live, learn how to kill, for wine is a wrangler. 
Have you a conscience? Take care of your 
slumber for a debauchee who repents too late is 
like a ship that leaks: it can neither return to 
land nor continue on its course; the winds can 
with difficulty move it, the Ocean yawns for it, 
it careens and disappears. If you have a body, 
look out for suffering; if you have a soul, des- 
pair awaits you. O, unhappy one! beware of 
men ; while they walk along the same path with 
you, you will seem to see a vast plain strewn 
with garlands where a happy throng of dancers 
trip the gladsome furandole standing in a cir- 
cle, each a link in an endless chain ; it is but 
a mirage ; those who look down know that they 
are dancing on a silken thread stretched over 
an abyss that swallows up all who fall and shows 


140 


THE CONFESSION OF 


not even a ripple on its surface. What foot is 
sure? Nature herself seems to deny you her 
divine consolation ; trees and flowers are yours 
no more ; you have broken your mother’s laws 
you are no longer one of her foster children, 
the birds of the field become silent when you 
appear. You are alone! Beware of God! You 
are face to face with him, standing like a cold 
statue upon the pedestal of will. The rain 
from heaven no longer refreshes you, it under- 
mines and weakens you. The passing wind no 
longer gives j'ou the kiss of life, the benediction 
on all that lives and breathes; it buffets you 
and makes you stagger. Every woman who 
kisses you takes from you a spark of life and 
gives you none in return ; you exhaust yourself 
on phantoms ; wherever falls a drop of our sweat 
there springs up one of those sinister weeds 
that grow in graveyards. Die! You are the 
enemy of all who love ; blot yourself from the 
face of the earth, do not wait for old age; do 
not leave a child behind you, do not fecundate 
a drop of your corrupted blood; vanish as does 
the smoke, do not deprive a single blade of 
living grass of a ray of sunlight! ’ ” 

When I had spoken these words I fell back 
in my chair and a flood of tears streamed from 
my eyes. 

“Ah! Desgenais," I cried, sobbing, “this is 
not what you told me. Did you not know it? 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


141 

And if you did, why did you not tell me of it?” 

But Desgenais sat still with folded hands; he 
was as pale as a shroud and a long tear trickled 
down his cheek. 

A moment of silence ensued. The clock 
struck; I suddenly remembered that it was 
this hour and this day one year ago that my 
mistress deceived me. 

“Do you hear that clock?” 1 cried, “do you 
hear it? I do not know what it means at this 
moment, but it is a terrible hour and one that 
will count in my life." 

I was beside myself and scarcely knew what 
I was saying. But that instant a servant rushed 
into the room ; he took my hand and led me 
aside whispering in my ear : 

“Sir, I have come to inform you that your 
father is dying ; he has just been seized with 
an attack of apoplexy and the physicians des- 
pair of his life.” 


PART III 


CHAPTER I 

My father lived in the country some distance 
from Paris. When I arrived I found a physi- 
cian at the door who said to me : 

“You are too late; your father expressed a 
desire to see you before he died.” 

I entered and saw my father dead. “Sir,” I 
said to the physician, “please have everyone 
retire that I may be alone here ; my father had 
something to say to me, and he will say it.” 

In obedience to my order the servants left 
the room. I approached the bed and raised the 
shroud which already covered the face. But 
when my eyes fell on that face, I stooped to 
kiss it and lost consciousness. 

When I recovered consciousness I heard some 
one say: 

“If he requests it, you must refuse him on 
some pretext or other.” 

I understood that they wanted to get me 
away from the bed of death and so I feigned 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


M3 


that I had heard nothing. When they saw 
that I was resting quietly, they left me. I waited 
until the house was quiet and then took a can- 
dle and made my way to my father’s room. I 
found there a young priest seated near the bed. 

“Sir,” I said, “to dispute with an orphan the 
last vigil at a father’s side, is a bold enterprise. 
I do not know what your orders may be. You 
may remain in the adjoining room ; if anything 
happens, I alone am responsible.” 

He retired. A single candle on the table 
shone on the bed. I sat down in the chair the 
priest had just left and again uncovered those 
features I was to see for the last time. 

“What do you wish to say to me, father?” I 
asked. “What was your last thought concern- 
ing your child?” 

My father had a book in which he was ac- 
customed to write from day to day the record 
of his life. That book lay on the table and I 
saw that it was open ; I kneeled before it ; on 
the open page were these words and no more : 

“Adieu my son, I love you and I die.” 

I did rot shed a tear, not a sob came from 
my lips; my throat was swollen and my mouth 
sealed ; I looked at my father without moving. 

He knew my life, and my irregularities had 
caused him much sorrow and anxiety. He did 
not refer to my future, to my youth and my 
follies. His advice had often saved me from 


i 4 4 


THE CONFESSION OF 


some evil course, and had influenced my entire 
life, for his life had been one of singular virtue 
and kindness. I supposed that before dying he 
wished to see me to try once more to turn me 
from the path of error ; but death had come 
too swiftly ; he felt that he could express all 
he had to say in one word and he wrote in his 
book that he loved me. 


CHAPTER II 

A little wooden railing surrounded my father’s 
grave. According to his expressed wish he was 
buried in the village cemetery. Every day I 
visited his tomb and passed part of the day on 
a little bench in the interior of the vault. The 
rest of the time I lived alone in the house in 
which he died and I kept with me only one 
servant. 

Whatever sorrows the passions may cause, 
the woes of life are not to be compared with 
those of death. My first thought as I sat beside 
my father’s bedside was that I was a helpless 
child, knowing nothing, understanding noth- 
ing; I can not say that my heart felt physical 
pain, but I sometimes bent over and wrung my 
hands as one who wakens from a long sleep. 

During the first months of my life in the 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


145 


country I had no thought of either the past or 
the future. It did not seem to be I who had 
lived up to that time; what I felt was not des- 
pair, and in no way resembled the terrible 
grief I had experienced in the past ; there was 
a sort of languor in every action, a sense of 
fatigue with all of life, a poignant bitterness 
that was eating out my heart. I held a book 
in my hand all day long but I did not read, I 
did not even know what I dreamed about. I 
had no thoughts; within all was silence; I had 
received such a violent blow and yet one that 
was so prolonged in its effect, that I remained 
a purely passive being and there seemed to be 
no reaction. 

My servant, Larive by name, had been much 
attached to my father; he was, after my father 
himself, probably the best man I have ever 
known. He was the same height and wore the 
clothes my father had left him, having no livery. 

He was about the same age, that is his hair 
was turning gray and during twenty years he 
had lived with my father, he had learned some 
of his ways. While I was pacing up and down 
the room after dinner, I heard him doing the 
same in the hall ; although the door was open 
he did not enter and not a word was spoken ; 
but from time to time we would look at each 
other and weep. The entire evening would 

pass thus, and it would be late in the night 
10 


146 


THE CONFESSION OF 


before I would ask for a light, or get one my- 
self. 

Everything about the house was left un- 
changed, not a piece of paper was moved. The 
great leather armchair in which my father sat, 
stood near the fire ; his table and his books 
just as he left them ; I respected even the dust 
on these articles, which in life, he never liked 
to see disturbed. The walls of that solitary 
house accustomed to silence and the most tran- 
quil life seemed to look down on me in pity as 
I sat in my father’s chair, enveloped in his 
dressing-gown. A feeble voice seemed to whis- 
per : “Where is the father? It is plain to see 
that this is an orphan.” 

I received several letters from Paris and re- 
plied to each that I desired to pass the summer 
alone in the country, as my father was accus- 
tomed to do. .1 began to realize that in all 
evil there is some good and that sorrow, what- 
ever else may be said of it, is a means of re- 
pose. Whatever the message brought by those 
who are sent by God, they always accomplish 
the happy result of awakening us from the 
sleep of the world, and when they speak, all 
are silent. Passing sorrows blaspheme and 
accuse heaven; great sorrows neither accuse nor 
blaspheme, they listen. 

In the morning I passed entire hours in the 
contemplation of nature. My windows over- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


Ml 


looked a valley in the midst of which arose the 
village steeple ; all was plain and calm. Spring 
with its budding Jeaves and flowers, did not 
produce on me the sinister effect of which the 
poets speak, who find in the contrasts of life 
the mockery of death. I looked upon that friv- 
olous idea, if it was serious and not a simple 
antithesis made in pleasantry, as the conceit 
of a heart that has known no real experience. 
The gambler who leaves the table at break of 
day, his eyes burning and hands empty, may 
feel that he is at war with nature like the torch 
at some hideous vigil; but what can the bud- 
ding leaves say to a child who mourns a lost 
father? The tears of his eyes are sisters of the 
rose; the leaves of the willow are themselves 
tears. It is when I look at the sky, the woods 
and the prairies, that I understand men who 
seek consolation. 

Larive had no more desire to console me than, 
to console himself. At the time of my father’s 
death he feared I would sell the property and 
take him to Paris. I did not know what he 
had learned of my past life, but I had noticed 
his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down 
in the old home, he gave me a glance that went 
to my heart. One day I had a large portrait of 
my father sent from Paris, and placed it in the 
dining-room. When Larive entered the room 
to serve me, he saw it ; he hesitated, looked at 


148 


THE CONFESSION OF 


the portrait and then at me, in his eyes there 
shone a melancholy joy that I could not fail to 
understand. It seemed to say: “What hap- 
piness! We are to suffer here in peace!” 

I gave him my hand which he covered with 
tears and kisses. 

He looked upon my grief as the mistress of 
his own. When I visited my father’s tomb in 
the morning I found him there watering the 
flowers; when he saw me he went away and 
returned home. He followed me in my ram- 
bles ; when I was on my horse I did not expect 
him to follow me, but when I saw him trudging 
down the valley, wiping the sweat from his 
brow, I bought a small horse from a peasant 
and gave it to him; thus we rode through the 
woods together. 

In the village were some people of our ac- 
quaintance who frequently visited us. My door 
was closed to them, although I regretted it ; 
but I could not see any one with patience. 
Sometime when sure to be free from interrup- 
tion I hoped to examine my father’s papers. 
Finally Larive brought them to me, and unty- 
ing the package with trembling hand, spread 
them before me. 

Upon reading the first pages I felt in my 
heart that vivifying freshness that characterizes 
the air near a lake of cool water ; the sweet 
serenity of my father’s soul exhaled as a per- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


149 


fume from the dusty leaves I was unfolding. 
The journal of his life lay open before me; I 
could count the diurnal throbbings of that noble 
heart. I began to yield to the influence of a 
dream that was both sweet and profound, and 
in spite of the serious firmness of his character, 
I discovered an ineffable grace, the flower of 
kindness. While I read, the recollection of his 
death mingled with the narrative of his life, I 
can not tell with what sadness I followed that 
limpid stream until its waters mingled with 
those of the ocean. 

"Oh! just man,’’ I cried, "fearless and stain- 
less! what candor in thy experience! Thy de- 
votion to thy friends, thy admiration for nature, 
thy sublime love of God, this is thy life, there 
is no place in thy heart for anything else. The 
spotless snow on the mountain’s summit is not 
more pure than thy saintly old age, thy white 
hair resembles it. Oh! father, father! Give 
thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than 
my blonde head. Let me live and die as thou 
hast lived and died. I wish to plant in the 
soil over your grave the green branch of my 
young life, I will water it with my tears, and 
the God of orphans will protect that sacred 
twig nourished by the grief of youth and the 
memory of age.” 

After having read these precious papers I 
classified them and arranged them in order. I 


i5o 


THE CONFESSION OF 


formed a resolution to write a journal myself. 
I had one made just like that of my fathers 
and, carefully searching out the minor details 
of his life, I tried to conform my life to his. 
Thus whenever I heard the clock strike the 
hour, tears came to my eyes: “This,” said I, 
“is what my father did at this hour, ” and wheth- 
er it was reading, walking or eating, I never 
failed to follow his example. Thus I accus- 
tomed myself to a calm and regular life; there 
was an indefinable charm about this orderly 
life that did me good. I went to bed with a 
sense of comfort and happiness, such as I had 
not known for a long time. My father spent 
much of his time about the garden ; the rest of 
the day was devoted to walking and study, a 
nice adjustment of bodily and mental exercise. 

At the same time I followed his example in 
doing little acts of benevolence among the un- 
fortunate. I began to search for those who 
were in need of my assistance and there were 
many of them in the valley. I soon became 
known among the poor ; my message to them 
was: “When the heart is good, sorrow is sacred !” 
For the first time in my life, I was happy, God 
blessed my tears and sorrow taught me virtue. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


151 


CHAPTER III 

One evening as I was walking under a row of 
lindens at the entrance to the village, I saw a 
young woman come from a house some distance 
from the road. She was dressed simply and 
veiled so that I could not see her face; but her 
form and her carriage seemed so charming that I 
followed her with my eyes for some time. As she 
was crossing a field, a white goat, running at 
liberty through the grass, ran to her side ; she 
caressed it softly, and looked about as though 
searching for some favorite herb to feed it. I 
saw near me some wild mulberry ; I plucked a 
branch and stepped up to her holding it in my 
hand. The goat watched my approach with 
apprehension ; he was afraid to take the branch 
from my hand. His mistress made a sign as 
though to encourage him but he looked at her 
with an air of anxiety ; she then took the branch 
from my hand and the goat promptly accepted 
it from hers. I bowed and she passed on her 
way. 

On my return home I asked Larive if he knew 
who lived in the house I described to him ; it 
was a small house, modest in appearance, with 
a garden. He recognized it ; there were but 
two people in the house, an old woman who 
was very religious, and a young woman whose 


152 


THE CONFESSION OF 


name was Madam Pierson. It was she I had 
seen. I asked him who she was and if she 
ever came to see my father. He replied that 
she was a widow, that she led a retired life, 
and that she had visited my father, but rarely. 
When I had learned all he knew I returned to 
the lindens and sat down on a bench. 

I do not know what feeling of sadness came 
over me as I saw the goat approaching me. I 
arose from my seat, and, for distraction, I fol- 
lowed the path I had seen Madam Pierson 
take, a path that led to the mountains. 

It was nearly eleven in the evening before I 
thought of returning; as I had walked some 
distance, 1 directed my steps towards a farm 
house, intending to ask for some milk and 
bread. Drops of rain began to splash at my 
feet announcing a thunder shower which I was 
anxious to escape. Although there was a light 
in the house and I could hear the sound of feet 
going and coming through the house, no one 
responded to my knock, and I walked around 
to one of the windows to ascertain if there was 
anyone within. 

I saw a bright fire burning in the lower hall ; 
the farmer, whom I knew, was sitting near his 
bed; I knocked on the window-pane and called 
to him. Just then the door opened and I was 
surprised to see Madam Pierson, who inquired 
who was there. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


153 


I waited a moment in order to conceal my 
astonishment. I then entered the house and 
asked permission to remain until the storm 
should pass. I could not imagine what she 
was doing at such an hour in this deserted 
spot ; suddenly I heard a plaintive voice from 
the bed, and turning my head I saw the farm- 
er’s wife lying there with the mark of death on 
her face. 

Madam Pierson who had followed me, sat 
down before the old man who was bowed down 
with sorrow; she made me a sign to make no 
noise as the sick woman was sleeping. I took 
a chair and sat in a corner until the storm 
passed. 

While I sat there I saw her rise from time 
to time and whisper something to the farmer. 
One of the children whom I took upon my knee 
said that she came every night since the moth- 
er’s illness. She performed the duties of a sis- 
ter of charity, there was no one else in the 
country who could do it ; there was but one 
physician and he was densely ignorant. 

“That is Brigitte la Rose,” said the child; 
“don’t you know her?“ 

“No,” I replied in a low voice. "Why do 
you call her by such a name?” 

He replied that he did not know unless it 
was because she had been rosy and the name 
had clung to her. 


154 


THE CONFESSION OF 


As Madam Pierson had laid aside her veil 
I could see her face ; when the child left me I 
raised my head. She was standing near the 
bed holding in her hand a cup which she was 
offering the sick woman who had awakened. 
She appeared to be pale and thin ; her hair 
was ashen blonde. Her beauty was not of the 
regular type. How shall I express it? Her 
large dark eyes were fixed on those of her pa- 
tient and those eyes that shone with approach- 
ing death returned her gaze'. There was in that 
simple exchange of kindness and gratitude, a 
beauty that can not be described. 

The rain was falling in torrents ; a heavy 
darkness settled over the lonely mountain side, 
pierced by occasional flashes of lightning. The 
noise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, 
the wrath of the unchained elements made a 
deep contrast with the religious calm which 
prevailed in the little cottage. I looked at the 
wretched bed, at the broken windows, the 
puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tem- 
pest, I observed the helpless despair of the 
farmer, the superstitious terror of the children, 
the fury of the elements besieging the bed of 
death ; and when in the midst of all that, I saw 
that gentle, pale-faced woman going and com- 
ing, bravely meeting the duties of the moment 
regardless of the tempest, and of our presence, 
it seemed to me there was in that calm per- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


155 


formance something more serene than the most 
cloudless sky, and that there was something 
superhuman about this woman who, surrounded 
by such horrors, did not for an instant lose her 
faith in God. 

What woman is this, I wondered; whence 
comes she and how long has she been here? 
A long time since, they remember when her 
cheeks were rosy. How is it I have never 
heard of her? She comes to this spot alone 
and at this hour? Yes she has traversed these 
mountains and valleys through storm and fair 
weather, she goes hither and thither bearing 
life and hope wherever they fail, holding in her 
hand that fragile cup, caressing her goat as she 
passes. And this is what has been going on 
in this valley while I have been dining and 
gambling ; she was probably born here, and will 
be buried in a corner of the cemetery, by the 
side of her father. Thus will that obscure 
woman die, a woman of whom no one speaks 
and of whom the children say : “Don’t you know 
her?" 

I can not express what I experienced ; I sat 
quietly in my corner scarcely breathing, and it 
seemed to me that if I had tried to assist her, 
if I had reached out my hand to spare her a 
single step, I would have been guilty of sac- 
rilege, I would have touched sacred vessels. 

The storm lasted two hours. When it sub- 


THE CONFESSION OF 


156 

sided the sick woman sat up in her bed and 
said that she felt better, that the medicine she 
had taken had done her good. The children 
ran to the bedside, looking up into their mother’s 
face with great eyes that expressed both sur- 
prise and joy. 

“I am very sure you are well,” said the hus- 
band who had not stirred from his seat, “for we 
have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a 
large sum. ” 

At that coarse and stupid expression I glanced 
at Madam Pierson ; her swollen eyes, her pallor, 
her attitude, all clearly expressed fatigue and 
the exhaustion of long vigils. 

“Ah! my poor man!” said the farmer’s wife, 
“may God reward you!” 

I could hardly contain myself, I was so an- 
gered by the stupidity of these brutes who were 
capable of crediting the work of charity to the 
avarice of a cur£. I was about to reproach 
them for their ingratitude and treat them as 
they deserved, when Madam Pierson took one 
of the children in her arms and said with a 
smile : 

“You may kiss your mother for she is saved.” 

I stopped when I heard these words. 

Never was the naive contentment of a happy 
and benevolent heart painted in such beauty on 
so sweet a face. Fatigue and pallor seemed to 
be gone, she became radiant with joy. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


15 7 

A few minutes later Madam Pierson told the 
children to call the farmer’s boy to conduct her 
home. I advanced to offer my services ; I told 
her that it was useless to awaken the boy as I 
was going in the same direction, and that she 
would do me an honor by accepting my offer. 

She asked me if I was not Octave de T 

I replied that I was and that she doubtess re- 
membered my father. It struck me as strange 
that she should smile at that question; she 
cheerfully accepted my arm and we set out on 
our return. 


CHAPTER IV 

We walked along in silence; the wind was 
going down; the trees quivered gently, shak- 
ing the rain from the boughs. Some distant 
flashes of lightning could still be seen ; the 
perfume of humid verdure filled the warm air. 
The sky soon cleared and the moon illumined 
the mountain. 

I could not help thinking of the whimsical- 
ness of chance, which had seen fit to make me 
the solitary companion of a woman of whose 
existence I knew nothing a few hours before. 
She had accepted me as her escort on account 
of the name I bore, and leaned on my arm with 
quiet confidence. In spite of her distraught 


i 5 8 


THE CONFESSION OF 


air it seemed to me that this confidence was 
either very bold or very simple; and she must 
needs be either the one or the other, for at each 
step I felt my heart becoming at once proud 
and innocent. 

We spoke of the sick woman she had just 
quitted, of the scenes along the route ; it did 
not occur to us to ask the questions incident 
to a new acquaintance. She spoke to me of 
my father and always in the same tone I had 
noted when I first revealed my name, that is 
cheerfully ; almost gayly. By degrees I thought 
I understood why she did this, observing that 
she spoke thus of all, both living and dead, of 
life and of suffering and death. It was be- 
cause human sorrows had taught her nothing 
that could accuse God, and I felt the piety of 
her smile. 

I told her of the solitary life I was leading. 
Her aunt, she said, had seen more of my father 
than she, as they sometimes played cards to- 
gether after dinner. She urged me to visit 
them, assuring me a welcome. 

When about half way home she complained 
of fatigue and sat down to rest on a bench that 
the heavy foliage had protected from the rain. 

I stood before her and watched the pale light 
of the moon playing on her face. After a mo- 
ment’s silence she arose and in a constrained 
manner observed: 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


i59 


"Of what are you thinking? It is time for 
us to think of returning. ” 

"I was wondering," I replied, "why God cre- 
ated you, and I was saying to myself that it 
was for the sake of those who suffer. " 

"That is an expression that, coming from 
you, I can not look upon except as a compli- 
ment. ” 

"Why?” I asked. 

"Because you appear to be very young." 

"It sometimes happens,” I said, "that one is 
older than the face would seem to indicate." 

"Yes,” she replied, smiling, "and it some- 
times happens that one is younger than his 
words would seem to indicate.” 

"Have you no faith in experience?” 

"I know that it is the name most young men 
give to their follies and their disappointments ; 
what can one know at your age?” 

"Madam, a man of twenty may know more 
than a woman of thirty. The liberty which 
men enjoy enables them to see more of life 
and its experiences than women ; they go wher- 
ever they please and no barrier restrains them ; 
they test life in all its phases. When inspired 
by hope, they press forward to achievement ; 
what they will, they accomplish. When they 
have reached the end, they return; hope has 
been lost on the route, and happiness has 
broken its word.” 


i6o THE CONFESSION OF 

As I was speaking we reached the summit of 
a little hill which sloped down to the valley; 
Madam Pierson, yielding to the downward ten- 
dency began to trip lightly down the incline. 
Without knowing why, I did the same and we 
ran down the hill, arm in arm ; the long grass 
under our feet retarded our progress. Finally, 
like two birds, spent with flight, we reached 
the foot of the mountain. 

"Behold!” cried Madam Pierson, "just a short 
time ago I was tired, but now I am rested. 
And, believe me,” she added, with a charming 
smile, "you should treat your experience as I 
have treated my fatigue. We have made good 
time and will enjoy supper the more on that 
account. ” 


CHAPTER V 

I went to see her in the morning. I found her 
at the piano, her old aunt at the window sew- 
ing, the little room filled with flowers, the sun- 
light streaming through the blinds, a large bird 
cage at her side. 

I expected to find her something of a religie- 
use, at least one of those women of the province 
who know nothing of what happens two leagues 
away, and who live in a certain narrow circle 
from which they never escape. I confess that 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 161 

such isolated life, which is found here and 
there in small towns, under a thousand unknown 
roofs, had always had on me the effect of stag- 
nant pools of water ; the air does not seem 
respirable: in everything on earth that is for- 
gotten, there is something of death. 

On Madam Pierson’s table were some papers 
and new books; they looked as though they 
had not been more than touched. In spite of 
the simplicity of everything around her, of fur- 
niture and dress, it was easy to recognize mode, 
that is to say, life; she did not live for this 
alone, but that goes without saying. What 
struck me in her taste was that there was noth- 
ing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and 
pleasantness. Her conversation indicated a 
finished education; there was no subject on 
which she could not speak well and with ease. 
While admitting that she was naive, it was evi- 
dent that she was at the same time profound 
in thought and fertile in resource; an intelli- 
gence at once broad and free soared gently over 
a simple heart and over the habits of a retired 
life. The sea swallow, whirling through the 
azure heavens, soars thus over the blade of grass 
that marks its nest. 

We talked of literature, music, and even pol- 
itics. She had visited Paris during the winter ; 
from time to time she dipped into the world ; 
n 


i 62 


THE CONFESSION OF 


what she saw there served as a basis for what 
she divined. 

But her distinguishing trait was gayety, a 
cheerfulness that, while not exactly joy itself, 
was constant and unalterable; it might be said 
that she was born a flower, and that her per- 
fume was gayety. 

Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner 
at certain moments, all led me to believe that 
she had suffered. I know not what it was that 
seemed to say that the sweet serenity of her 
brow was not of this world but had come from 
God and that she would return it to him spot- 
less in spite of man ; and there were times when 
she reminded one of the careful housewife, 
who, when the wind blows, holds her hand be- 
fore the candle. 

When I had been in the house half an hour 
I could not help saying what was in my heart. 
I thought of my past life, of my disappoint- 
ment and my ennui ; I walked to and fro, breath- 
ing the fragrance of the flowers and looking at 
the sun. I asked her to sing, and she did so 
with good grace. In the meantime I leaned 
on the window-sill and watched the birds flit- 
ting about the garden. A saying of Montaigne’s 
came into my head: “I neither love nor esteem 
sadness although the world has invested it, at 
a given price, with the honor of its particular 
favor. They dress up in it wisdom, virtue, 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 163 

conscience. Stupid and absurd adornment.” 

“What happiness!” I cried in spite of myself. 
"What repose! What joy! What forgetfulness 
of self’” 

The good aunt raised hear head and looked 
at me with an air of astonishment ; Madam 
Pierson stopped short. I became red as fire 
when concious of my folly, and sat down with- 
out a word. 

We went out into the garden. The white 
goat I had seen the evening before was lying 
in the grass ; it came up to her and followed 
us about the garden. 

When we reached the end of the garden 
walk, a large young man with a pale face, clad 
in a kind of black cassock, suddenly appeared 
at the railing. He entered without knocking 
and bowed to Madam Pierson ; it seemed to 
me that his face, which I considered a bad 
omen, darkened a little when he saw me. He 
was a priest I had often seen in the village 
and his name was Mercanson ; he came from 
St. Sulpice and was related to the cure of the 
parish. 

He was large and at the same time pale, a 
thing which always displeased me and which 
is, in fact, unpleasant ; it impresses one as a 
sort of diseased healthfulness. Moreover, he 
had the slow yet jerky way of speaking that 
characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of 


164 


THE CONFESSION OF 


walking which was not that of youth and health 
repelled me; as for his glance, it might be said 
that he had none. I do not know what to think 
of a man whose eyes have nothing to say. These 
are the signs which led to an unfavorable opin- 
ion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfor- 
tunately correct. 

He sat down on a bench and began to talk 
about Paris, which he called the modern Baby- 
lon. He had been there, he knew everyone; 

he knew Madam de B who was an angel ; 

he had preached sermons in her salon and was 
listened to on bended knee. (The worst of 
this was that it was true). One of his friends 
who had introduced him there had been ex- 
pelled from school for having seduced a girl ; a 
terrible thing to do, very sad. He paid Madam 
Pierson a thousand compliments for her chari- 
table deeds throughout the country ;* he had 
heard of her benefactions, her care for the sick, 
her vigils at the bed of suffering and of death. 
It was very beautiful and noble; he would not 
fail to speak of it at St. Sulpice. Did he not 
seem to say that he would not fail to speak of 
it to God? 

Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal 
my rising disgust, I sat down on the grass and 
began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned 
on me his dull and lifeless eye : 

“The celebrated Vergniand,” said he, “was 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 165 

afflicted with that mania of sitting on the ground 
and playing with animals.” 

“It is a mania,” I replied, very innocently. 
“If there were none others the world would get 
along without so much meddling on the part of 
others. ” 

My reply did not please him ; he frowned 
and changed the subject. He was charged with 
a commission ; his uncle the cur6 had spoken 
to him of a poor devil who was unable to 
earn his daily bread. He lived in such and 
such a place ; he had been there himself and 
was interested in him ; he hoped that Madam 
Pierson — 

I was looking at her while he was speaking, 
wondering what reply she would make and 
hoping she would say something in order to 
drown out the memory of the priest’s voice 
with her gentle tones. She merely bowed and 
he retired. 

When he had gone our gayety returned. Wq 
entered a green-house in the rear of the garden. 

Madam Pierson treated her flowers as she did 
her birds and her peasants; everything about 
her must be well cared for, each flower must have 
its drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that 
she might be gay and happy as an angel ; so 
nothing could be in better condition than her 
little green-house. When we had made the 
round of the building she said : 


i66 


THE CONFESSION OF 


"This is my little world ; you have seen all 
I possess and my domain ends here.” 

"Madam,” I said, "as my father’s name has 
secured for me the favor of admittance here, 
permit me to return and I will believe that hap- 
piness has not entirely forgotten me.” 

She extended her hand and I touched it with 
respect, not daring to raise it to my lips. 

I returned home, closed my door and retired. 
There danced before my eyes a little white 
house; I saw myself walking through the village 
and knocking at the garden gate. "Oh! my 
poor heart!” I cried. "God be praised, you are 
still young, you are still capable of life and of 
love !” 

One evening I was with Madam Pierson. 
More than three months had passed during 
which I had seen her almost every day; and 
what can I say of that time except that I saw 
her? “To be with those we love, ” said Bruyere, 
‘‘suffices; to dream, to talk to them, not to talk 
to them, to think of them, to think of the most 
indifferent things, but to be near them, it is all 
the same.” 

I loved. During the three months we had 
taken many long walks ; I was initiated into 
the mysteries of her modest charity; we passed 
through dark streets, she on her little horse, I 
on foot, a small stick in my hand; thus half 
conversing, half dreaming, we knocked at the 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


167 


doors of cottages. There was a little bench 
near the edge of the wood where I was accus- 
tomed to rest after dinner; we met here regu- 
larly as though by chance. In the morning, 
music, reading; in the evening, cards with the 
aunt as in the days of my father; and she al- 
ways there smiling, her presence filling my 
heart. By what road, O, Providence! have you 
led me? What irrevocable destiny am I to 
accomplish? What! a life so free, an intimacy 
so charming, so much repose, such buoyant 
hope! O, God! Of what do men complain? 
What is there sweeter than love? 

To live, yes, to feel intensely, profoundly, 
that one exists, that one is man, created by God, 
that is the first, the greatest gift of love. We 
can not deny however, that love is a mystery, 
inexplicable, profound. With all the chains, 
with all the pains, and I may even say, with 
all the disgust with which the world has sur- 
rounded it, buried as it is under a mountain of 
prejudices which distort and deprave it, in 
spite of all the ordure through which it has 
been dragged, love, eternal and fatal love, is 
none the less a celestial law as powerful and 
as incomprehensible as that which suspends 
the sun in the heavens. What is this myste- 
rious bond, stronger and more durable than iron, 
that can neither be seen nor touched? What 
is there in meeting a woman, in looking at her, 


i68 


THE CONFESSION OF 


in speaking one wcfrd to her, and then never 
forgetting her? Why this one rather than that 
one? Invoke the aid of reason, of habit, of 
the senses, the head, the heart, and explain it 
if you can. You will find nothing but two 
bodies, one here, the other there, and between 
them what? Air, space, immensity. O, fools! 
who fondly imagine yourselves men, and who 
reason of love! Have you talked with it? No, 
you have felt it. You have exchanged a glance 
with a passing stranger, and suddenly there 
flies out from you something that can not be 
defined, that has no name known to man. You 
have taken root in the ground like the seed 
concealed in the blade of grass which feels the 
motion of life, and which is on its way to the 
harvest. 

We were alone, the window was open, the 
murmur of a little fountain came to us from 
the garden. O, God ! would that I could 
count, drop bv drop, all the water that fell 
while we were sitting there, while she was talk- 
ing and I was responding. It was there that 
I became intoxicated with her to the point of 
madness. 

It is said that there is nothing so rapid as a 
feeling of antipathy, but I believe that the road 
t<3 love is more swiftly traversed. Of what 
avail are words spoken with the lips when 
hearts listen and respond? What sweetness in 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


169 


the glance of a woman who begins to attract 
you! At first it seems as though everything 
that passes between you is timid and tentative, 
but soon there is born a strange joy, and echo 
answers the voice of love; the thrill of a dual 
life is felt. What a touch! What a strange 
attraction! And when love is sure of itself and 
recognizes fraternity in the object beloved, what 
serenity in the soul ! Words die on the lips, for 
each one knows what the other is about to say 
before utterance has shaped the thought. Souls 
expand, lips are silent. Oh! what silence! 
What forgetfulness of all! 

Although my love began the first day and had 
since grown to excess, the respect I felt for 
Madam Pierson sealed my lips. If she had 
been less frank in permitting me to become 
her friend, perhaps I would have been more 
bold, for she had made such a strong impres- 
sion on me, that I never quitted her without 
transports of love. But , there was something 
in her frankness and the confidence she placed 
in me, that checked me ; moreover, it was in 
my father’s name that I had been treated as a 
friend. That consideration rendered me still 
more respectful and I resolved to prove worthy 
of that name. 

To talk of love, they say, is to make love. 
We rarely spoke of it. Every time I happened 
to touch the subject Madam Pierson led the 


THE CONFESSION OF 


170 

conversation to some other topic. I did not 
discern her motive, but it was not prudery; it 
seemed to me that at such times her face took 
on a stern aspect and a wave of feeling, even 
of suffering, passed over it. As I had never 
questioned her about her past life and was un- 
willing to do so, I respected her obvious wishes. 

Sunday there was dancing in the village ; she 
was almost always there. On those occasions 
her toilet although always simple, was more 
elegant than usual ; there was a flower in her 
hair, a bright ribbon, or some such bagatelle; 
but there was something youthful and fresh 
about her. The dance, which she loved for itself 
as an amusing exercise, seemed to inspire her 
with a frolicsome gayety. Once launched on 
the floor it seemed to me she allowed herself 
more liberty than usual, that there was an un- 
usual familiarity. I did not dance, being still 
in mourning, but I managed to keep near her, 
and seeing her in such good humor, I was often 
tempted to confess my love. 

But for some strange reason, whenever I 
thought of it I was seized with an irresistible 
feeling of fear; the idea of an avowal was 
enough to render me serious in the midst of 
gayety. I conceived the idea of writing to her, 
but burned the letters before half finished. 

That evening I dined with her, and looked 
about me at the many evidences of a tranquil 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


171 

life; I thought of the quiet life that I was lead- 
ing, of my happiness since I had known her, 
and said to myself : “Why ask for more? Does 
not this suffice? Who knows, perhaps God 
has nothing more for you? If I should tell her 
that I love her, what would happen? Perhaps 
she would forbid me the pleasure of seeing her. 
Would I, in speaking the words, make her hap- 
pier than she is to-day? Would I be happier 
myself?” 

I was leaning on the piano, and as I indulged 
in these reflections sadness took possession of 
me. Night was coming on and she lighted a 
candle ; while returning to her seat she noticed 
a tear in my eye. 

“What is the matter?” she asked. 

I turned aside my head. 

I sought an excuse, but could find none; I 
was afraid to meet her glance. I arose and 
stepped to the window. The air was balmy, 
the moon was rising beyond those lindens where 
I had first met her. I fell into a profound revery; 
I even forgot that she was present and, extend- 
ing my arms toward heaven, a sob welled up 
from my heart. 

She arose and stood behind me. 

“What is it?” she again asked. 

I replied that the sight of that valley stretch- 
ing out beneath us had recalled my father’s 
death ; I took leave of her and went out. 


172 


THE CONFESSION OF 


Why I decided to silence my love I can not 
say. Nevertheless, instead of returning home, 
I began to wander about the woods like a fool. 
Whenever I found a bench I sat down and then 
jumped up precipitately. Toward midnight I 
approached Madam Pierson’s house; she was 
at the window. Seeing her there I began to 
tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but I was 
fascinated ; I advanced gently and sadly and 
sat down beneath her window. 

I do not know whether she recognized me; I 
had been there some time when I heard her 
sweet, fresh voice singing the refrain of a ro- 
mance, and at the same instant a flower fell 
on my shoulder. It was a rose she had worn 
that evening on her bosom ; I picked it up and 
bore it to my lips. 

“Who is there at this hour? Is it you?" 

She called me by name. The gate leading 
into the garden was open ; I arose without reply- 
ing and entered it, I stopped before a plot of 
grass in the centre of the garden ; I was walk- 
ing like a somnambulist, without knowing what 
I was doing. 

Suddenly 1 saw her at the door opening into 
the garden ; she seemed to be undecided and 
looked attentively at the rays of the moon. She 
made a few steps toward me and I advanced to 
meet her. I could not speak, I fell on my 
knees before her and seized her hand. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


173 


"Listen to me,” she said j "I know all; but 
if it has come to that, Octave, you must go 
away. You come here every day and you are 
always welcome, are you not? Is not that 
enough? What more can I do for you. My 
friendship you have won ; I wish you had been 
able to keep yours a little longer.” 


CHAPTER VI 

When Madam Pierson had spoken these 
words she waited in silence as though expect- 
ing a reply. As I remained overwhelmed with 
sadness, she gently withdrew her hand, stepped 
back, waited a moment longer and then re-en- 
tered the house. 

I remained kneeling on the grass. I had 
been expecting what she said ; my resolution 
was soon taken, and I decided to go away. I 
arose, my heart bleeding but firm. I looked 
at the house, at her window; I opened the gar- 
den gate and placed my lips on the lock as I 
passed out. 

When I reached home I told Larive to make 
what preparations were necessary as I would 
set out in the morning. The poor fellow was 
astonished, but I made him a sign to obey and 
ask no questions. He brought a large trunk 


174 


THE CONFESSION OF 


and busied himself with preparations for de- 
parture. 

It was five o’clock in the morning and day 
was beginning to break when I asked myself 
where I was going. At that thought, which 
had not occurred to me before, I experienced 
a profound feeling of discouragement. I cast 
my eyes over the country, scanning the hori- 
zon. A sense of weakness took possession of 
me ; I was exhausted with fatigue. I sat down 
in a chair and my ideas became confused; I 
bore my hand to my forehead and found it 
bathed in sweat. A violent fever made my 
limbs tremble ; I could hardly reach my bed 
with Larive’s assistance. My thoughts were 
so confused that I had no recollection of what 
had happened. The day passed ; toward evening 
I heard the sound of instruments. It was the 
Sunday dance and I asked Larive to go and 
see if Madam Pierson was there. He did not 
find her; I sent him to her house. The blinds 
were closed, and a servant informed him that 
Madam Pierson and her aunt had gone to spend 

some days with a relative who lived at N , 

a small town some distance north. He handed 
me a letter that had been given him. It was 
conceived in the following terms : 

“I have known you three months, and for 
one month have noticed that you feel for me 
what at your age is called love. I thought I 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


175 


detected on your part a resolution to conceal 
this from me and conquer yourself. I already 
esteemed you, this enhanced my respect. I 
do not reproach you for the past, nor for' the 
weakness of your will. 

“What you take for love is nothing more than 
desire. I am well aware that many women seek 
to arouse it ; it would be better if they did not 
feel the neccessity of pleasing those who ap- 
proach them ; but that vanity is a dangerous 
thing since I have done wrong in entertaining 
it with you. 

“I am some years older than you and ask you 
not to try to see me again. It would be vain 
for you to try to forget the weakness of a mo- 
ment ; what has passed between us can neither 
be repeated nor forgotten. 

‘I do not take leave of you without sorrow; I 
expect to be absent some time; if, when I re- 
turn, I find that you have gone away, I will 
appreciate your action as the final evidence of 
your friendship and esteem. 

“Brigitte Pierson.” 


CHAPTER VII 

The fever kept me in bed a week. When I 
was able to write I assured Madam Pierson that 
she would be obeyed, and that I would go away. 
I wrote in good faith, without any intention 
to deceive, but I was very far from keeping 
my promise. Before I had gone ten leagues 


176 


THE CONFESSION OF 


I ordered the driver to stop, and I stepped 
out of the carriage. I began to walk along the 
road. I could not resist the temptation to look 
back at the village which was still visible in 
the distance. Finally, after a period of frightful 
irresolution, I felt that it was impossible for 
me to continue on my route, and rather than 
get into the carriage again, I would have died 
on the spot. I told the driver to turn around, 
and, instead of going to Paris as I had intended, 
I made straight for N whither Madam Pier - 

son had gone. 

I arrived at ten in the night. As soon as I 
reached the inn I had a boy direct me to the 
house of her relatives, and, without reflecting 
what I was doing, at once made my way to the 
spot. A servant opened the door. I asked if 
Madam Pierson was there and directed him to 
tell her that some one wished to speak to her 
on the part of M. Desprez. That was the name 
of our village cur6. 

While the servant was executing my order I 
remained alone in a sombre little court ; as it 
was raining I entered the hall and stood at the 
foot of the stairway which was not lighted. 
Madam Pierson soon arrived, preceding the ser- 
vant ; she descended rapidly, and did not see 
me in the darkness; I stepped up to her and 
touched her arm. She recoiled with terror and 
cried out : 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


177 


“What do you wish of me?” 

Her voice trembled so painfully, and when 
the servant appeared with a light, her face was 
so pale that I did not know what to think. Was 
it possible that my unexpected appearance could 
disturb her in such a manner? That reflection 
occurred to me, but I decided that it was merely 
a feeling of fright natural to a woman who is 
suddenly touched. 

Nevertheless, she repeated her question in a 
firmer tone. 

“You must permit me to see you once more, ” 
I replied. “I will go away, I will leave the 
country. You shall be obeyed, I swear it, and 
that beyond your real desire, for I will sell my 
father’s house and go abroad; but that is only 
on condition that I am permitted to see you 
once more ; otherwise I remain ; you need fear 
nothing from me, but I am resolved on that.” 

She frowned and cast her eyes about her in 
a strange manner; then she replied, almost 
graciously : 

“Come to-morrow during the day and I will 
see you.” Then she left me. 

The next day at noon I presented myself. 
I was introduced into a room with old hang- 
ings and antique furniture. I found her alone, 
seated on a sofa. I sat down before her. 

“Madam,” I began, “I come neither to speak 
of what I suffer, nor to deny that I love you. 


178 


THE CONFESSION OF 


You have written me that what has passed be- 
tween us can not be forgotten, and that is true; 
but you say that on that account we can not 
meet on the same footing as heretofore, and 
you are mistaken. I love you, but I have not 
offended you; nothing is changed in our rela- 
tions since you do not love me. If I am per- 
mitted to see you, responsibility rests with me, 
and as far as your responsibility is concerned, 
my love for you should be sufficient guaran- 
tee. ” 

She tried to interrupt me. 

“Kindly allow me to finish what I have to 
say. No one knows better than I that in spite 
of the respect I feel for you, and in spite of all 
the protestations by which I might bind my- 
self, love is the stronger. I repeat I do not 
intend to deny what is in my heart; but you 
do not learn of that love to-day for the first 
time, and I ask you what has prevented me 
from declaring it up to the present time? The 
fear of losing you ; I was afraid I would not be 
permitted to see you, and that is what has hap- 
pened. Make a condition that the first word 
I shall speak, the first thought or gesture that 
shall seem to be inconsistent with the most 
profound respect, shall be the signal for the 
closing of your door; as I have been silent in 
the past, I will be silent in the future. You 
think that I have loved you for a month, when 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


179 


in fact I have loved you from the first day I 
met you. When you discovered it, you did not 
refuse to see me on that account. If you had 
at that time enough esteem for me to believe 
me incapable of offending you, why have you 
lost that esteem? That is what I have come 
to ask you. What have I done? I have bent 
my knee, but I have not said a word. What 
have I told you? What you already knew. I 
have been weak because I have suffered. It is 
true, madam, that I am twenty years of age and 
what I have seen of life has only disgusted me 
(I could use a stronger word); it is true that 
there is not at this hour on earth, either in the 
society of men or in solitude, a place, however 
small and insignificant, that I care to occupy. 
The space enclosed between the four walls of 
your garden is the only spot in the world where 
I live; you are the only human being who has 
made me love God. I had renounced everything 
before I knew you ; why deprive me of the only 
ray of light that Providence has spared me? If 
it is on account of fear, what have I done to 
inspire it? If it is on account of pity, in what 
respect am I culpable? If it is on account of 
pity and because I suffer, you are mistaken in 
supposing that I can cure myself ; it might 
have been done, perhaps, two months ago ; but 
I preferred to see you and to suffer, and I do 
not repent, whatever may come of it. The only 


180 THE CONFESSION OF 

misfortune that can reach me, is losing you. 
Put me to the proof. If I ever feel that there 
is too much suffering for me in our bargain I 
will go away; and you may be sure of it, since 
you send me away to-day, and I am ready to 
go. What risk do you run in giving me a 
month or two of the only happiness I will ever 
know?” 

I waited her reply. She suddenly rose from 
her seat, then sat down again. Then a moment 
of silence ensued 

“Rest assured," she said, "it is not so.” 

I thought she was searching for words that 
would not appear too severe, and that she was 
anxious to avoid hurting me. 

"One word,” I said, rising, "one word, noth- 
ing more. I know who you are and if there is 
any compassion for me in your heart, I thank 
you; speak but one word, this moment decides 
my life." 

She shook her head ; I saw that she was hesi- 
tating. 

“You think I can be cured?" I cried. “May 
God grant you that solace if you send me 
away — " 

I looked out of the window at the horizon 
and felt in my soul such a frightful sensation 
of loneliness at the idea that I was going away, 
that my blood froze in my veins. She saw me 
standing before her, my eyes fixed on her, await- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 181 

ing her reply; all of my life was hanging in 
suspense upon her lips. 

"Very well,” she said, "listen to me. This 
move of yours in coming to see me was an act 
of great imprudence; however, it is not neces- 
sary to assume that you have come here to see 
me; accept a commission that I will give you 
for a friend of my family. If you find that it 
is a little far, let it be the occasion of an ab- 
sence which shall last as long as you choose, 
but which must not be too short. Although 
you said a moment ago,” she added with a 
smile, "that a short trip would calm you. You 
will stop in the Vosges and you will go as far 
as Strassburg. Then in a month, or better, in 
two months you will return and report to me ; 
I will see you again and give you further in- 
structions." 


CHAPTER VIII 

That evening 1 received from Madam Pierson 
a letter addressed to M. R. D., at Strassburg. 
Three weeks later my mission had been accom- 
plished and I returned. 

During my absence I had thought of nothing 
but her, and I despaired of ever forgetting her. 
Nevertheless I determined to restrain my feel- 
ings in her presence ; I had suffered too cruelly 


182 


THE CONFESSION OF 


at the prospect of losing her, to run any further 
risks. My esteem for her rendered it impossi- 
ble for me to suspect her sincerity, and I did 
not see, in her plan for getting me to leave the 
country, anything that resembled hypocrisy. In 
a word, I was firmly convinced that at the first 
word of love her door would be closed to me. 

Upon my return I found her thin and changed. 
Her habitual smile seemed to languish on her 
discolored lips. She told me that she had been 
suffering. 

We did not speak of the past. She did not 
appear to wish to recall it and I had no desire 
to refer to it. We resumed our old relations 
of neighbors ; yet there was something of con- 
straint between us, a sort of conventional fa- 
miliarity. It was as though we had said : ‘‘It 
was thus before, let it still be thus.” She 
granted me her confidence, a concession that 
was not without its charms for me; but our 
conversation was colder, for the reason that 
our eyes expressed as much as our tongues. 
In all that we said there was more to be sur- 
mised than was actually spoken. We no longer 
endeavored to fathom each others mind; there 
was not the same interest attaching to each 
word, to each sentiment; that curious analysis 
that characterized our past intercourse ; she 
treated me with kindness, but I distrusted even 
that kindness ; I walked with her in the garden 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


183 


but no longer accompanied her outside of the 
premises ; we no longer wandered through the 
woods and valleys ; she opened the piano when 
we were alone ; the sound of her voice no longer 
awakened in my heart those transports of joy 
which are like sobs that are inspired by hope. 
When 1 took leave of her, she gave me her 
hand, but I was conscious of the fact that it was 
lifeless ; there was much effort in our familiar 
ease, many reflections in our lightest remarks, 
much sadness at the bottom of it all. 

We felt that there was a third party between 
us : it was my love for her. My actions never 
betrayed it, but it appeared in my face: I lost 
my cheerfulness, my energy, and the color of 
health that once shone in my cheeks. At the 
end of one month I no longer resembled my 
old self. 

And yet in all our conversations I insisted 
on my disgust with the world, on my aversion 
to returning to it. I tried to make Madam 
Pierson feel that she had no reason to reproach 
herself for allowing me to see her ; I depicted 
my past life in the most sombre colors and gave 
her to understand that if she should refuse to 
allow me to see her, she would condemn me to 
a loneliness worse than death; I told her that 
I held society in abhorrence and the story of 
my life, as I recited it, proved my sincerity. 
So I affected a cheerfulness that I was far from 


184 


THE CONFESSION OF 


feeling, in order to show her that in permitting 
me to see her she had saved me from the most 
frightful misfortune ; I thanked her almost 
every time I went to see her that I might re- 
turn in the evening or the following morning. 
"All my dreams of happiness,” said I, "all my 
hopes, all my ambitions, are enclosed in the 
little corner of the earth where you dwell ; out- 
side of the air that you breathe there is no life 
for m^. " 

She saw that I was suffering and could not 
help pitying me. My courage was pathetic, 
and her every word and gesture shed a sort of 
tender light over my devotion. She saw the 
struggle that was going on in me : my obedi- 
ence flattered her pride, while my pallor awak- 
ened her charitable instinct. At times she ap- 
peared to be irritated, almost coquettish; she 
would say in a tone that was almost rebellious: 
"I shall not be here to-morrow, do not come on 
such and such a day.” Then as I was going 
away sad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup 
of bitterness by adding: "I am not sure of it, 
come whenever you please;" or her adieu was 
more friendly than usual, her glance more ten- 
der. 

"Rest assured that Providence has led me to 
you, ” I said. "If had not met you, I might have 
relapsed into the irregular life I was leading 
before I knew you. God has sent you as an 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


185 

angel of light to draw me from the abyss. He 
has confided a sacred mission to you; who 
knows, if I should lose you, whither the sorrow 
that consumes me might lead me, the sad experi- 
ence I have been through, the terrible combat 
between my youth and my ennui?” 

That thought, sincere enough on my part, had 
great weight with a woman of lofty devotion 
whose soul was as pious as it was ardent. It 
was probably the only consideration that in- 
duced Madam Pierson to permit me to see her. 

I was preparing to go to see her one day when 
some one knocked at my door and I saw ty[er- 
canson enter, that priest I had met in the gar- 
den on the occasion of my first visit. He be- 
gan to make excuses that were as tiresome as 
himself for presuming to call on me without 
having made my acquaintance; I told him that 
I knew him very well as the nephew of our 
cur6, and asked what I could do for him. 

He turned uneasily from one side to another 
with an air of constraint, searching for phrases 
and fingering everything on the table before 
him as though at a loss what to say. Finally 
he informed me that Madam Pierson was ill 
and that she had sent word to me by him that 
she would not be able to see me that day. 

“Is she ill? Why, I left her late yesterday 
afternoon and she was very well at that time!” 

He bowed. 


i86 


THE CONFESSION OF 


“But” 1 continued, “if she is ill why send 
word to me by a third party? She does not 
live so far away that a useless call would harm 
me.” 

The same response from Mercanson. I could 
not understand what this peculiar manner sig- 
nified, much less why she had entrusted her 
mission to him. 

“Very well,” I said, “I shall see her to-morrow 
and she will explain what this means.” 

His hesitation continued. 

“Madam Pierson has also told me — that I 
should inform you — in fact, I am requested to — ” 

“Well, what is it?” I cried, impatiently. 

“Sir, you are becoming violent, I think Ma- 
dam Pierson is seriously ill ; she will not be 
able to see you this week. ' 

Another bow, and he retired. 

It was clear that his visit concealed some 
mystery : either Madam Pierson did not wish 
to see me, and I could not explain why ; or 
Mercanson had interfered on his own respon- 
sibility. 

I waited until the following day and then 
presented myself at her door; the servant who 
met me said that her mistress was indeed very 
ill and could not see me ; she refused to accept 
the money I offered her, and would not answer 
my questions. 

As I was passing through the village on my 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 187 

return, I saw Mercanson ; he was surrounded 
by a number of school children, his uncle’s pu- 
pils. I stopped him in the midst of his ha- 
rangue and asked if I could have a word with 
him. 

He followed me aside ; but now it was my 
turn to hesitate for I was at a loss how to pro- 
ceed to draw his secret from him. 

“Sir,” I finally said, “will ) r ou kindly inform 
me if what you told me yesterday was the truth, 
or was there some motive behind it? Moreover, 
as there is not a physician in the neighborhood 
who can be called in in case of necessity, it is 
important that I should know whether her con- 
dition is serious.” 

He protested that Madam Pierson was ill, but 
that he knew nothing more, except that she had 
sent for him and asked him to notify me as he 
had done. While talking we had walked down 
the road some distance and had now reached a 
deserted spot. Seeing that neither strategy nor 
entreaty would serve my purpose, I suddenly 
turned and seized him by the arms. 

“What does this mean, sir? You intend to 
resort to violence?” he cried. 

“No, but I intend ’to make you tell me what 
you know.” 

"Sir, I am afraid of no one, and I have told 
you what you ought to know.” 

“You have told me what you think I ought 


i88 


THE CONFESSION OF 


to know, but not what you know. Madam 
Pierson is not sick, I am sure of it.” 

“How do you know?” 

“The servant told me so. Why has she closed 
her door against me, and why did she send you 
to tell me of it?” 

Mercanson saw a peasant passing. 

"Pierre!” he cried, calling him by name, “wait 
a moment, I wish to speak with you.” 

The peasant approached ; that was all he 
wanted, thinking I would not dare use violence 
in the presence of a third party. I let go of 
him, but so roughly that he staggered back and 
fell against a tree. He clenched his fist and 
turned away without a word. 

For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three 
times a day I called at Madam Pierson’s and 
was each time refused admittance. I received 
one letter from her ; she said that my assiduity 
was causing talk in the village and begged me 
to call less frequently. Not a word about Mer- 
canson or her illness. 

This precaution on her part was so unnatural 
and contrasted so strongly with her former 
proud indifference in matters of this kind, that 
at first I could hardly believe it. Not knowing 
what else to say I replied that there was no 
desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. 
But in spite of me, the words I used did not 
conceal the bitterness I felt. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


89 


I purposely delayed going to see her even 
when permitted to do so, and no longer sent to 
inquire about her condition, as I wished to have 
her know that I did not believe in her illness. 
I did not know why she kept meat a distance; 
but I was so miserably unhappy that, at times, 
I thought seriously of putting an end to a life 
that had become insupportable. I was accus- 
tomed to spend entire days in the woods, and 
one day I happened to encounter her there. 

I hardly had the courage to ask for an expla- 
nation; she did not reply frankly and I did not 
recur to the subject, I could only count the days 
I was obliged to pass without seeing her, and 
live in the hope of a visit. All the time I was 
strongly tempted to throw myself at her feet, 
and tell her of my despair. I knew that she 
would not be insensible to it, and that she 
would at least express her pity; but her sever- 
ity and the abrupt manner of her departure re- 
called me to my senses; I trembled lest I should 
lose her, and I would rather die than expose 
myself to that danger. 

Thus, denied the solace of confession of my 
sorrow, my health began to give way. My 
feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that 
I was exhausting the source of tears, and each 
visit cost me added sorrow; I was torn with 
the thought that I ought not to see her. 

On her part there was neither the same tone 


igo 


THE CONFESSION OF 


nor the same ease as of old ; she spoke of going 
away on a tour ; she pretended to confess to 
me her longing to get away, leaving me more 
dead than alive after her cruel words. If sur- 
prised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she 
immediately checked herself and relapsed into 
her accustomed coldness. Upon one occasion 
I could not restrain my tears. I saw her turn 
pale. As I was going, she said to me at the 
door : 

“To-morrow I am going to St. Luce (a neigh- 
boring village), and it is too far to go on foot. 
Be here with your horse early in the morning; 
if you have nothing to do, and go with me.” 

I was on hand promptly, as may readily be 
imagined. I had slept over that word with 
transports of joy ; but, upon leaving my house, 
I experienced a feeling of deep dejection. In 
restoring me to the privilege I had formerly 
enjoyed of accompanying her on her missions 
about the country, she had clearly been guilty 
of a cruel caprice if she did not love me. She 
knew how I was suffering; why abuse my cour- 
age unless she had changed her mind? 

This reflection had a strange influence on me. 
When she mounted her horse my heart beat 
violently as I took her foot ; I do not know 
whether it was desire or anger. “If she is 
touched,” I said to myself, “why this reserve? 
If she is a coquette, why so much liberty?” 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


191 

Such are men. At my first word she saw 
that a change had taken place in me. I did 
not speak to her but kept to the other side 
of the road. When we reached the valley she 
appeared at ease and only turned her head 
from time to time to see if I was following 
her; but when we came to the forest and our 
horses’ hoofs resounded against the rocks that 
lined the road, I saw that she was trembling. 
She stopped as though to wait for me, as I was 
some distance in the rear ; when I had over- 
taken her she set out on a gallop. We soon 
reached the foot of the mountain and were com- 
pelled to slacken our pace. I then made my 
way to her side ; our heads were bowed ; the 
time had come, I took her hand. 

“Brigitte,” I said, “are you weary of my 
complaints? Since I have been reinstated in 
your favor, since I have been allowed to see you 
every day and every evening, I have asked my- 
self if I have been importunate. During the 
last two months, while strength and hope have 
been failing me, have I said a word of that 
fatal love which is consuming me? Raise your 
head and answer me. Do you not see that I 
suffer and that my nights are given to weeping? 
Have you not met in the forest an unfortunate 
wretch, sitting in solitary dejection with his 
hands pressed to his forehead? Have you not 
seen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look 


192 


THE CONFESSION OF 


at these mountains ; do you realize that I love 
you? They know it, they are my witnesses; 
these rocks and these trees know my secret. 
Why lead me before them? Am I not wretched 
enough? Do I fail in courage? Have I obeyed 
you? To what tests, what tortures am I sub- 
jected, and for what crime? If you do not love 
me, what ate you doing here?” 

‘‘Let us return,” she said, “let us retrace our 
steps. ” 

I seized her horse’s bridle. 

‘‘No,” I replied, ‘‘for I have spoken. If we 
return, I lose you, I realize it; I know in ad- 
vance what you will say. You have been pleased 
to try my patience, you have set my sorrow at de- 
fiance, perhaps that you might have the right to 
drive me from your presence ; you have become 
tired of that sorrowful lover who suffered with- 
out complaint and who drank with resignation 
the bitter chalice of your disdain ! You knew 
that, alone with you in the presence of these 
trees, in the midst of this solitude where my love 
had its birth, I could not be silent! You wish 
to be offended. Very well, madam, I lose you! 
I have wept and I have suffered, I have too 
long nourished in my heart a pitiless love that 
devours me. You hav£ been cruel!” 

As she was about to leap from her saddle, I 
seized her in my arms and pressed my lips to 
hers. She turned pale, her eyes closed, her 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


193 


bridle slipped from her hand and she fell to 
the ground. 

“God be praised!” I cried, “she loves me!” 
She had returned my kiss. 

I leaped to the ground and hastened to her 
side. She was extended on the ground. I raised 
her, she opened her eyes, and shuddered with 
terror; she pushed my arm aside, and burst 
into tears. 

I stood near the roadside ; I looked at her 
as she leaned against a tree, as beautiful as 
the day, her long hair falling over her shoulders, 
her hands twitching and trembling, her cheeks 
suffused with color, brilliant with purple and 
with pearls. 

"Do not come near me!” she cried, “not a 
step!” 

“Oh! my love,” I said, “fear nothing; if I 
have offended you, you know how to punish me. 
I was angry and I gave way to my grief ; treat 
me as you choose, you may go away now, you 
may send me away! I know that you love me, 
Brigitte, and you are safer here than a king in 
his palace." 

As I spoke these words, Madam Pierson fixed 
her humid eyes on mine; I saw the happiness 
of my life come to me in the flash of those 
orbs. I crossed the road and knelt before her. 
How little he loves who can recall the words 

he uses when he confesses that love! 

13 


194 


THE CONFESSION OF 


CHAPTER IX 

If I were a jeweler and had in my stock a 
pearl necklace that I wished to give*a friend, 
it seems to me I would take great pleasure in 
placing it about her neck with my own hands; 
but if I were that friend, I would rather die than 
snatch the necklace from the jeweler’s hand. 
I have seen many men hasten to give them- 
selves to the woman they love but I have al- 
ways done the contrary, not through calcula- 
tion, but through natural instinct. The woman 
who loves a little and resists does not love 
enough, and she. who loves enough and resists 
knows that she is not sincerely loved. 

Madam Pierson gave evidence of more con- 
fidence in me, confessing that she loved me 
when she had never shown it in her actions. 
The respect I felt for her inspired me with such 
joy that her face looked to me like a blossomed 
flower. At times she would abandon herself to 
an impulse of sudden gayety and then suddenly 
check herself treating me like a child, and then 
looking at me with eyes filled with tears; in 
dulging in a thousand pleasantries as a pretext 
for a more familiar word or caress, then quitting 
me to go aside and abandon herself to revery. 
Is there a more beautiful sight? When she 
returned she would find me waiting for her in 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


195 


some spot where I had remained watching her. 

“Oh! my friend!” I said. “Heaven itself re- 
joices to see how you are loved.” 

Yet I could neither conceal the violence of 
my desires nor the pain I endured struggling 
against them. One evening I told her that I 
had just learned of the loss of an important 
case, which would involve a considerable change 
in my affairs. 

“How is it,” she asked," that you make this 
announcement and smile at the same time?” 

“There is a certain maxim of a Persian poet. ” 
I replied, “ ‘He who is loved by a beautiful 
woman is sheltered from every blow.’” 

Madam Pierson made no reply; all that even- 
ing She was even more cheerful than usual. 
When we played cards with her aunt and I lost 
she was merciless in her scorn, saying that I 
knew nothing of the game and betting against 
me with so much success that she won all I had 
in my purse. When the old lady retired, she 
stepped out on the balcony and I followed her 
in silence. 

The night was beautiful ; the moon was set- 
ting and the stars shone brightly in a field of 
deep azure. Not a breath of wind stirred the 
trees; the air was warm and freighted with the 
perfume of spring. 

She was leaning on her elbow, her eyes in 
the heavens; I leaned over her and watched 


196 


THE CONFESSION OF 


her as she dreamed. Then I raised my own 
eyes ; a voluptuous melancholy seized us both. 
We breathed together the warm perfume wafted 
to us from the garden; we followed, in its lin- 
gering course, the pale light of the moon which 
glinted through the chestnut trees. I thought 
of a certain day when I had looked up at the 
broad expanse of heaven with despair; I trem- 
bled at the recollection of that hour ; life Was 
so rich now! I felt a hymn of praise welling 
up in my heart. I surrounded the form of my 
dear mistress with my arm ; she gently turned 
her head ; her eyes were bathed in tears. Her 
body yielded as does the rose, her open lips 
fell on mine, and the universe was forgotten. 


CHAPTER X 

Eternal angel of happy nights, who will utter 
thy silence? A kiss! mysterious vintage that 
flows from the lips as from a stainless chalice! 
Intoxication of the senses! O, voluptuous pleas- 
ure! Yes, like God, thou art immortal! Sub- 
lime exaltation of the creature, universal com- 
munion of beings, thrice sacred pleasure, what 
have they sung who have celebrated thy praise? 
They have called thee transitory, O, thou who 
dost create! And they have said that thy pass- 
ing beams have illumined their fugitive life. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 197 

Words that are as feeble as the dying breath! 
Words of a sensual brute who is astonished 
that he should live for an honr, and who mis- 
takes the rays of the eternal lamp for the spark 
which is struck from the flint! 

O, love! thou principle of life! precious 
flame over which all nature like a careful vestal, 
incessantly watches in the temple of God! Cen- 
tre of all, by whom all exists! The spirit of 
destruction would itself die, blowing at thy 
flame! I am not astonished that thy name 
should be blasphemed, for they do not know 
who thou art, they who think they have seen 
thy face because they have opened their eyes ; 
and when thou findest thy true prophets, united 
on earth with a kiss, thou closest their eyes 
lest they look upon the face of perfect joy. 

But your first delights, languishing smiles, 
first stammering utterance of love, you who can 
be seen, who are you? Are you less in God’s 
sight than all the rest,, beautiful cherubim who 
soar in the alcove and who bring to this world 
man awakened from the dream divine! Ah! dear 
children of pleasure, how your mother loves 
you! It is you, curious prattlers, who behold the 
first mysteries, touches, trembling yet chaste, 
glances that are already insatiable, who begin 
to trace on the heart, as a tentative sketch, the 
ineffacable image of cherished beauty ! O, 
royalty! O, conquest! It is you who make 


THE CONFESSION OF 


198 

lovers. And thou, true diadem, thou, serenity 
of happiness! First glance bent on life, first 
return of happiness to the many little things 
of life which are seen only through the medium 
of joy, first steps made by nature in the direc- 
tion of the well- beloved ! Who will paint you? 
What human word will ever express thy slight- 
est caress? 

He who, in the freshness of his youth, has 
taken leave of an adored mistress ; he who has 
walked through the streets without hearing 
the voices of those who speak to him ; he who 
has sat in a lonely spot, laughing and weeping 
without knowing why; he who has placed his 
hands to his face in order to breathe the per- 
fume that still clings to them ; he who has 
suddenly forgotten what he had been doing on 
earth ; he who has spoken to the trees along the 
route and to the birds in their flight; finally, 
he who, in the midst of men has acted the mad- 
man, and then has fallen on his knees and 
thanked God for it ; he will die without com- 
plaint: he has known the joy of love. 


PART IV 


CHAPTER I 

I have now to recount what happened to my 
love, and the change that took place in me. 
What reason can I give for it? None, except 
as I repeat the story and as I say: ‘‘It is the 
truth. " 

For two days neither more nor less, I was 
Madam Pierson’s lover. One fine night I set 
out and traversed the road that led to her house. 
I was feeling so well in body and soul, that 
I leaped for joy and extended my arms to heav- 
en. I found her at the top of the stairway 
leaning on the railing, a lighted candle beside 
her. She was waiting for me and when she 
saw me ran to meet me. 

She showed me how she had changed her 
coiffure which had displeased me, and told me 
how she had passed the day arranging her hair to 

suit my taste ; how she had taken down a villain- 
199 


200 


THE CONFESSION OF 


ous black picture frame that had offended my 
eye; how she had renewed the flowers; she re- 
counted all she had done since she had known 
me, how she had seen me suffer and how she 
had suffered herself; how she had thought of 
leaving the country, of fleeing from her love ; 
how she had employed every precaution against 
me ; how she had sought advice from her aunt, 
from Mercanson and from the cur6 ; how she 
had vowed to herself that she would die rather 
than yield, and how all that had been dissipated 
by a single word of mine, a glance, an incident ; 
and with every confession a kiss. She said that 
whatever I saw in her room that pleased my 
taste, whatever bagatelle on her table attracted 
my attention, she would give me; that whatever 
she did in the future, in the morning, in the 
evening, at any hour, I should regulate as I 
pleased ; that the judgments of the world did 
not concern her; that if she had appeared to 
care for them, it was only to send me away ; but 
that she wished to be happy and close her ears ; 
that she was thirty years of age and had not 
long to be loved by me. "And you will love 
me a long time? Are those fine words with 
which you have beguiled me, true?" And then 
loving reproaches because I had been late in 
coming to her ; that she had put on her slippers 
in order that I might see her foot but that she was 


A CHILD OP THE CENTURY 


201 


no longer beautiful; that she could wish she 
were; that she was at fifteen. She went here 
and there, silly with love, Vermillion with joy ; 
and she did not know what to imagine, what to 
say or do, in order to give herself and all that 
she had. 

I was lying on the sofa; I felt, at every word 
she spoke, a bad hour of my past life slipping 
away from me. I watched the star of love ris- 
ing in my sky, and it seemed to me I was like 
a tree filled with sap that shakes off its dry 
leaves in order to attire itself in new foliage. 

She sat down at the piano and told me she 
was going to play an air by Stradella. I love 
more than all else sacred music, and that mor- 
crau which she had sung for me a number of 
times, gave me great pleasure. 

“Yes,” she said when she had finished, “but 
you are very much mistaken, the air is mine, 
and I have made you believe it was Stradella’s. ” 

“It is yours?” 

“Yes, and I told you it was by Stradella in 
order to see what you would say of it. I never 
play my own music when I happen to compose 
any; but I wanted to try it with you, and you 
see.it has succeeded since you were deceived.” 

What a monstrous machine is man! What 
could be more innocent? A bright child might 
have adopted that ruse to surprise his teacher. 
She laughed heartily the while, but I felt a 


202 


THE CONFESSION OF 


strange coldness as though a cloud had settled 
on me; my countenance changed: 

"What is the matter?” she asked. "Are you 
ill?” 

"It is nothing; play that air again.” 

While she was playing I walked up and 
down the room ; I passed my hand over my 
forehead as though to brush away the fog, I 
stamped my foot, shrugged my shoulders at 
my own madness ; finally I sat down on a cush- 
ion which had fallen to the floor; she came to 
me. The more I struggled with the spirit of 
darkness which had seized me, the thicker the 
night that gathered around my head. 

"Verily,” I said, "you lie so well? What! 
that air is yours? Is it possible you can lie so 
fluently?” 

She looked at me with an air of astonish- 
ment. 

"What is it?” she asked. 

Unspeakable anxiety was depicted on her 
face. Surely she could not believe me fool 
enough to reproach her for such a harmless bit 
of pleasantry ; she did not see anything serious 
in that sadness which I felt; but the more tri- 
fling the cause, the greater the surprise. At 
first she thought I, too, must be joking ; but 
when she saw me growing paler every moment 
as though about to faint, she stood with open 
lips and bent body, looking like a statue. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


203 


“God of Heaven!” she cried, “is it possible?” 

You smile, perhaps, reader, at this page; 1 who 
write it still shudder as I think of it. Misfor- 
tunes have their symptoms as well as diseases, 
and there is nothing so terrible at sea as a lit- 
tle black point on the horizon. 

However, my dear Brigitte drew a little 
round table into the centre of the room and 
brought out some supper. She had prepared it 
herself and I did not drink a drop that was not 
first borne to her lips. The blue light of day, 
piercing through the curtains, ilumined her 
charming face and tender eyes ; she was tired 
and allowed her head to fall on my shoulder 
with a thousand terms of endearment. 

I could not struggle against such charming 
abandon, and my heart expanded with joy ; I 
believed I had rid myself of the bad dream, that 
had just tormented me and I begged her pardon 
for giving way to a sudden impulse which I 
myself, did not understand. 

“My friend,” I said, from the bottom of my 
heart, “I am very sorry that I unjustly re- 
proached you for a piece of innocent badinage; 
but if you love me, never lie to me, even in 
the smallest matter, for a lie is an abomination 
to me and I can not endure it.” 

I told her I would remain until she was asleep. 
I saw her close her beautiful eyes and heard 
her murmur something in her sleep as I bent 


204 


THE CONFESSION OF 


over and kissed her adieu. Then I went away 
with a tranquil heart, promising myself that I 
would henceforth enjoy my happiness and allow 
nothing to disturb it. 

But the next day Brigitte said to me, as 
though by chance : 

"I have a large book in which I have writ- 
ten my thoughts, every thing that has occurred 
to my mind and I want you to see what I said 
of ycu the first day I met you. " 

We read together what concerned me, to which 
we added a hundred foolish comments, after 
which I began to turn the leaves in a mechan- 
ical way. A phrase written in capital letters 
caught my eye on one of the pages I was turn- 
ing; I distinctly saw some words that were in- 
significant enough and I was about to read the 
rest when Brigitte stopped me and said : 

“Do not read that.” 

I threw the book on the table. 

“Why, certainly not,” I said, “I did not 
think what I was doing.” 

“Do you still take things seriously?” she 
asked, smiling, doubtless seeing my malady 
coming on again; “take the book, I want you to 
read it.” 

The book lay on the table within easy reach 
and I did not take my eyes from it. I seemed 
to hear a voice whispering in my ear, and I 
thought I saw, grimacing before me, with his 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


205 


glacial smile, and dry face, Desgenais. "What 
are you doing here, Desgenais?” I asked as if 
I really saw him. He looked as he did that 
evening, when he leaned over my table and 
unfolded to me his catechism of vice. 

I kept my eyes on the book and I felt vaguely 
stirring in my memory some forgotten words 
of the past. The spirit of doubt hanging over 
my head had injected into my veins a drop of 
poison ; the vapor mounted to my head and I 
staggered like a drunken man. What secret 
was Brigitte concealing from me? I knew very 
well that I had only to bend over and open the 
book; but at what place? How could I recog- 
nize the leaf on which my eye had chanced to 
fall? 

My pride, moreover, would not permit me to 
take the book ; was it indeed pride? "O, God !” 
I said to myself with a frightful sense of sad- 
ness, "is the past a spectre? and can it come 
out of its tomb? Ah! wretch that I am, can I 
never love?” 

All my ideas of contempt for women, all the 
phrases of mocking fatuity which I had re- 
peated as a school-boy his lesson suddenly came 
to my mind ; and strange to say, while formerly 
I did not believe in making a parade of them, 
now it seemed that they were real or at least 
that they had been. 

I had known Madam Pierson four months, 


206 


THE CONFESSION OF 


but I knew nothing of her past life and had 
never questioned her about it. I had yielded 
to my love for her with confidence and without 
reservation. I found a sort of pleasure in tak- 
ing her just as she was, for just what she seemed, 
while suspicion and jealousy are so foreign to 
my nature that I was more surprised at feeling 
them toward Brigitte than she was in discov- 
ering them in me. Never in my first love nor 
in the affairs of daily life have I been distrust- 
ful, but on the contrary bold and frank, sus- 
pecting nothing. I had to see my mistress be- 
tray me before my eyes before I would believe 
that she could deceive me. Desgenais himself 
while preaching to me after his manner, joked 
me about the ease with which I could be duped. 
The story of my life was an incontestable proof 
that I was credulous rather than suspicious ; 
and when the words in that book suddenly 
struck me, it seemed to me I felt a new being 
within me, a sort of unknown self; my reason 
revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare 
ask whither all that was leading me. 

But the suffering I had endured, the memory 
of the perfidy that I had witnessed, the frightful 
cure I had imposed on myself, the opinions of 
my friends, the corrupt life I had led, the sad 
truths I had learned, all those that I had un- 
consciously surmised during my sad experience, 
finally debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


207 


everything, that is what I had in my heart al- 
though I did not suspect it ; and at the moment 
when life and hope were again being born with- 
in me, all these furies that were growing numb 
with time, seized me by the throat and cried 
out that they were there. 

I bent over and opened the book, then im- 
mediately closed it and threw it on the table. 
Brigitte was looking at me; in her beautiful 
eyes there was neither wounded pride nor anger; 
there was nothing but tender solicitude as if I 
were ill, 

“Do you think I have secrets?” she asked, 
embracing me. 

“No,” I replied, "I know nothing except that 
you are beautiful and that I would die loving 
you. " 

When I returned home to dinner I said to 
Larive: 

“Who is that Madam Pierson?" 

He looked at me in astonishment. 

“You have lived here many years," I contin- 
ued ; “you ought to know betterthan I. What 
do they say of her here? What do they think 
of her in the village? What kind of life did 
she lead before I knew her? Whom did she 
receive as her friends?” 

“In faith, sir, I have never seen her do other- 
wise than she does every day, that is to say, 
walk in the valley, play piquet with her aunt, 


2o8 


THE CONFESSION OF 


and visit the poor. The peasants call her Bri- 
gitte la Rose ; I have never heard a word against 
her except that she goes through the woods 
alone at all hours of the day and night ; but 
that is when engaged in charitable work. She 
is the ministering angel in the valley. As for 
those she receives, there are only the cur£ and 
M. de Dalens during vacation. 

"Who is this M. de Dalens?” 

"He owns the chateau at the foot of the moun- 
tain on the other side; he only comes here for 
the chase." 

"Is he young?" 

"Yes." 

"Is he related to Madam Pierson?” 

"No, he was a friend of her husband." 

"Has her husband been dead long?" 

"Five years on All-Saint’s day. He was a 
worthy man." 

"And has this M. de Dalens paid court?" 

"To the widow? In faith — to tell the truth — " 
he stopped, embarrassed. 

"Well, will you answer me?" 

"Some say so and some do not — I know noth- 
ing and have seen nothing." 

"And you just told me that they do not talk 
about her in the country? ’ 

"That is all they have said, and I supposed 
you knew that." 

"In a word, yes or no?’ 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


209 


“Yes, sir, I think so, at least. ’’ 

I arose from the table and walked down the 
road ; Mercanson was there. I expected he 
would try to avoid me ; on the contrary he ap- 
proached me. 

“Sir,” he said, “you exhibited signs of anger 
which it does not become a man of my charac- 
ter to resent. I wish to express my regret that 
I was charged to communicate a message which 
appeared so unwelcome.” 

I returned his compliment, supposing he would 
leave me at once ; but he walked along at my 
side. 

“Dalens! Dalens!” I repeated between my 
teeth, “who will tell me about Dalens?” For 
Larive had told me nothing except what a valet 
might learn. From whom had he learned it? 
From some servant or peasant. I must have 
some witness who had seen Dalens with Madam 
Pierson and who knew all about their relations. 
I could not get that Dalens out of my head, 
and not being able to talk to any one else, I 
asked Mercanson about him. 

If Mercanson was not a bad man, he was 
either a fool or very shrewd, I have never known 
which ; it is certain that he had reason to hate 
me and that he treated me as meanly as possi- 
ble. Madam Pierson, who had the greatest 
friendship for the cur4, had almost come to 

think equally well of the nephew. He was 
14 


210 


THE CONFESSION OF 


proud of it, and consequently jealous. It is 
not love alone that inspires jealousy ; a favor, 
a kind word, a smile from a beautiful mouth 
may arouse some people to jealous rage. 

Mercanson appeared to be astonished. I was 
somewhat astonished myself ; but who knows 
his own mind? 

At his first words I saw that the priest un- 
derstood what I wanted to know and had de- 
cided not to satisfy me. 

“How does it happen that you have known 
Madam Pierson so long and so intimately (I 
think so, at least) and have not met M. de 
Dalens? But, doubtless, you have some reason 
unknown to me for inquiring aPout him to-day. 
All I can say is that as far as I know, he is an 
honest man, kind and charitable; he was, like 
you, very intimate with Madam Pierson; he is 
fond of hunting and entertains handsomely. 
He and Madam Pierson were accustomed to 
devote much of their time to music. He punctu- 
ally attended to his works of charity and, when 
in the country, accompanied that lady on her 
rounds, just as you do. His family enjoys an 
excellent reputation at Paris ; I used to find 
him with Madam Pierson whenever I called ; 
his manners were excellent. As for the rest, I 
speak truly and frankly, as becomes me when 
it concerns persons of his merit. I believe that 
he only comes here for the chase ; he was a 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


21 1 


friend of her husband ; he is said to be rich 
and very generous ; but I know nothing about 
it except that—” 

With what tortured phases was this dull tor- 
mentor teasing me. I was ashamed to listen 
to him, yet not daring to ask a single question 
or interrupt his vile insinuations. I was alone 
on the promenade; the poisoned arrow of sus- 
picion had entered my heart. I did not know 
whether I felt more of anger or of sorrow. The 
confidence with which I had abandoned myself 
to my love for Brigitte had been so sweet and 
so natural that I could not bring myself to be- 
lieve that so much happiness had been built 
upon an illusion. That sentiment of credulity 
which had attracted me to her seemed a proof 
that she was worthy. Was it possible that these 
four months of happiness were but a dream? 

But after all I thought, that woman has 
yielded too easily. Was there not deception 
in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the 
country? Is she not just like all the rest? Yes, 
that is the way* they all do; they attempt to es- 
cape in order to know the happiness of being 
pursued : it is the feminine instinct. Was it 
not she who confessed her love by her own 
act, at the very moment I had decided that she 
would never be mine? Did she not accept my 
arm the first day I met her? If that Dalens 
has been her lover, he probably is still ; there 


212 


THE CONFESSION OF 


are certain liaisons that have neither beginning 
nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it is 
resumed ; when parted it is forgotten. If that 
man comes here this summer, she will probably 
see him without breaking with me. Who is 
that aunt, what mysterious life is this that has 
charity for its cloak, this liberty that cares noth- 
ing for opinion? May they not be adventurers, 
these two women with their little house, their 
prudence and their caution which enables them 
to impose on people so easily? Assuredly for 
all I know I have fallen into an affair of gal- 
lantry when I thought I was engaged in a ro- 
mance. But what can I do? There is no one 
here who can help me except the priest, who 
does not care to tell me what he knows, and 
his uncle who will say still less. Who will 
save me? How can I learn the truth? 

Thus spoke jealousy ; thus, forgetting so many 
tears and all that I had suffered, I had come at 
the end of two days, to a point where I was 
tormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte 
had yielded too easily. Thus, like all who 
doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to 
dispute with facts, to attach myself to the let- 
ter and dissect my love. 

While absorbed in these reflections I was 
slowly approaching Madam Pierson’s. 

I found the gate open and as I entered the 
garden I saw a light in the kitchen. I thought 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


213 


of questioning the servant, I stepped to the 
window. 

A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot. 
The servant was an old woman, thin and wrin- 
kled and habitually bent over, a common deform- 
ity in people who have worked in the fields. I 
found her shaking a cooking utensil over a 
filthy sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her 
trembling hand ; about her were pots, kettles 
and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog 
sniffed at, from time to time, as though ashamed; 
a warm, nauseating odor emanated from the 
reeking walls. When the old woman caught 
sight of me, she smiled in a confidential way.; 
she had seen me take leave of her mistress. 

I shuddered as I thought what I had come 
to seek in a spot so well suited to my ig- 
noble purpose. I fled from that old woman 
as from jealousy personified, and as though 
the stench of her dishes had come from my 
heart. 

Brigitte was at the window watering her well- 
beloved flowers; a child of one of her neighbors 
was lying in a cradle at her side and she was 
gently rocking the cradle with her disengaged 
hand; the child’s mouth was full of bonbons, 
and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing an 
incomprehensible apostrophe to its nurse. I 
I sat down near her and kissed the child on 
its fat cheeks, as though to imbibe some of its 


214 


THE CONFESSION OF 


innocence. Brigitte accorded me a timid greet- 
ing ; she could see her troubled image in my 
eyes. For my part I avoided her glance; the 
more I admired her beauty and her air of can- 
dor, the more I was convinced that such a 
woman was either an angel or a monster of per- 
fidy ; I forced myself to recall each one of Mer- 
canson’s words, and I confronted, so to speak, 
the man’s insinuations with her presence and 
her face. “She is very beautiful,” I said to 
myself, “and very dangerous if she knows how 
to deceive; but I will fathom her and I will 
sound her heart; and she shall know who I 
am." 

“My dear," I said after a long silence, “I 
have just given a piece of advice to a friend 
who consulted me. He is an honest young 
man, and he writes me that a woman he loves 
has another lover. He asks me what he ought 
to do.” 

"What reply did you make?" 

“Two questions : Is she pretty? Do you love 
her? If you love her, forget her; if she is 
pretty and you do not love her, keep her for 
your pleasure ; there will always be time to 
quit her, if it is merely a matter of beauty, and 
one is worth as much as another." 

Hearing me speak thus, Brigitte put down 
the child she was holding; she sat down at the 
other end of the room. There was no light in 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


215 


the room; the moon, which was shining on 
the spot where she had been standing, threw 
a shadow over the sofa on which she was 
now seated. The words I had uttered were so 
heartless, so cruel, that I was dazed myself and 
my heart was filled with bitterness. The child 
in its cradle began to cry. Then all three of 
us were silent while a cloud passed over the 
moon. 

A servant entered the room with a light and 
carried the child away. I arose, Brigitte also ; 
but she suddenly placed her hand on her heart 
and fell to the floor. 

I hastened to her side ; she had not lost con- 
sciousness and begged me not to call anyone. 
She explained that she was subject to violent 
palpitation of the heart and had been troubled 
by fainting spells from her youth ; that there 
was no danger and no remedy. I kneeled be- 
side her ; she sweetly opened her arms ; I raised 
her head and placed it on my shoulder. 

"Ah! my friend,” she said, "I pity you.” 

"Listen to me,” I whispered in her ear, "I 
am a wretched fool, but I can keep nothing on 
my heart. Who is this M. de Dalens who lives 
on the mountain and comes to see you?” 

She appeared astonished to hear me mention 
that name. 

"Dalens?" she replied. "He was my hus- 
band’s friend.” 


216 


THE CONFESSION OF 


She looked at me as though to say : “Why 
do you ask?” It seemed to me that her face 
wore a grieved expression. I bit my lips. "If 
she wants to deceive me,” I thought, “I was 
foolish to question her.” 

Brigitte arose with difficulty; she took her 
fan and began to walk up and down the room. 

She was breathing hard ; I had wounded her. 
She was absorbed in thought and we exchanged 
two or three glances that were almost cold. 
She stepped to her desk, opened it, drew out a 
package of letters tied together with a ribbon, 
and threw it at my feet without a word 

But I was looking neither at her nor her let- 
ters ; I had just thrown a stone into the abyss 
and was listening to the echoes. For the first 
time offended pride was depicted on Brigitte’s 
face. There was no longer either anxiety or 
pity in her eyes and, just as I had come to feel 
myself other than I had ever been, so I saw in 
her a woman I did not know. 

‘‘Read that,” she said finally. I stepped up 
to her and took her hand. 

“Read that, read that!” she repeated in freez- 
ing tones. 

I took the letters. At that moment I felt so 
persuaded of her innocence that I was seized 
with remorse. 

“You remind me," she said, “that I owe you 
the story of my life; sit down and you shall 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


217 


learn it. You will open these drawers and you 
will read all that I have written and all that 
has been written to me." 

She sat down and motioned me to a chair. 
I saw that she found it difficult to speak. She 
was pale as death, her voice constrained, her 
throat swollen. 

“Brigitte! Brigitte!” I cried, “in the name 
of heaven, do not speak ! God is my witness I 
was not born such as you see me; during my 
life I have been neither suspicious nor dis- 
trustful, I have been undone, my heart has been 
seared by the treachery of others. A frightful 
experience has led me to the very brink of the 
precipice, and for a year I have seen nothing 
but evil here below. God is my witness that 
up to this day, I did not believe myself capable 
of playing the ignoble role I have assumed, the 
meanest role of all, that of a jealous lover. God 
is my witness that I love you and that you are 
the only one in the world who can cure me of 
the past. I have had to do, up to this time, 
with women who deceived me, or who where 
unworthy of love. I have led the life of a liber- 
tine ; I bear on my heart certain marks that 
will never be effaced. Is it my fault if calumny, 
if base suggestion, to-day planted in a heart 
whose fibres were still trembling with pain and 
prompt to assimilate all that resembles sorrow, 
has driven me to despair? I have just heard 


2 l8 


THE CONFESSION OF 


the name of a man I have never met, of whose 
existence I was ignorant; I have been given to 
understand that there has been between you 
and him a certain intimacy, which proves 
nothing ; I do not intend to question you ; I 
have suffered from it, I have confessed to you 
and I have done you an irreparable wrong. 
But rather than consent to what you propose, 
I will throw it all in the fire. Ah! my friend 
do not degrade me; do not attempt to justify 
yourself, do not punish me for suffering. How 
could I, in the bottom of my heart, suspect you 
of deceiving me? No, you are beautiful and 
you are true; a single glance of yours, Brigitte, 
tells me more than words could utter, and I am 
content. If you knew what horrors, what 
monstrous deceit, the child who stands before 
you has seen! If you knew how he had been 
treated, how they have mocked at all that is 
good, how they have taken pains to teach him 
all that leads to doubt, to jealousy, to despair! 
Alas! alas! ray dear mistress, if you knew 
whom you love! Do not reproach me but rather 
pity me; I must forget that other beings than 
you exist. Who can know through what fright- 
ful trials, through what pitiless suffering I have 
passed! I did not expect this, I did not antic- 
ipate this moment. Since you have become 
mine, I realize what I have done; I have felt, 
in kissing you, that my lips were not, like 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


219 


yours, unsullied. In the name of heaven, help 
me live! God made me a better man than the 
one you see before you. 

Brigitte held out her hands and caressed me 
tenderly. She begged me to tell her all that 
had led to this sad scene. I spoke of what I 
had learned from Larive but did not dare con- 
fess that I had interviewed Mercanson. She 
insisted that I listen to her explanation. M. 
de Dalens had loved her ; but he was a man of 
frivolous disposition, dissipated and inconstant, 
she had given him to understand that, not 
wishing to re-marry, she could only request that 
he drop the role of suitor, and he had yielded 
to her wishes with good grace ; but his visits 
had become more rare since that time, until 
now they had ceased altogether. She drew 
from the bundle a certain letter which she 
showed me, the date of which was recent ; I 
could not help blushing as I found in it the 
confirmation of all she had said ; she assured 
me that she pardoned me, and exacted a prom- 
ise that in the future I would promptly tell her 
of any cause I might have to suspect her. Our 
treaty was sealed with a kiss, and when I left 
her we had both forgotten that M. de Dalens 
ever existed. 


220 


THE CONFESSION OF 


CHAPTER II 

A kind of stagnant inertia, tempered with bit- 
ter joy, is characteristic of debauchery. It is the 
sequence of a life of caprice, where nothing is 
regulated according to the needs of the body 
but everything according to the fantasy of the 
mind and one must be always ready to obey the 
behests of the other. Youth and will can resist 
excess ; but nature silently avenges herself, and 
the day when she decides to repair her forces, 
the will struggles to retard her work and abuses 
her anew. 

Finding about him then all the objects that 
were able to tempt him the evening before, the 
man who is incapable of enjoying them, looks 
down at them with a smile of disgust. At the 
same time the objects which excite his desire 
are never attained with sangfroid ; all that the 
debauchee loves, he takes violent possession of ; 
his life is a fever; his organs, in order to 
search the depths of joy, are forced to avail 
themselves of the stimulant of fermented 
liquors, and sleepless nights ; in the days of 
ennui and of idleness, he feels more keenly 
than other men the disparity between his im- 
potence and his temptations, and, in order to 
resist the latter, pride must come to his aid 
and make him believe that he disdains them. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


221 


It is thus he spits on all the feasts and pleas- 
ures of his life, and that between an ardent 
thirst and a profound satiety a feeling of tran- 
quil vanity leads him to his death. 

Although I was no longer a debauched it came 
to pass that my body suddenly remembered 
that it had been. It is easy to understand why 
I had not felt the effects of it sooner.. While 
mourning my father’s death every other thought 
was crowded from my mind. Then a passion- 
ate love succeeded ; while I was alone, ennui 
had nothing to struggle for. Sad or gay, fair 
or foul, what matters it to him who is alone? 

As zinc, that demi-metal, drawn from the 
blue vein where it lies sleeping, attracts to 
itself a ray of light when placed near a piece 
of green leather, thus Brigitte’s kisses gradually 
awakened in my heart what had been buried 
there. At her side I perceived what I really 
was. 

There were days when I felt such a strange 
sensation in the mornings, that it is impossible 
for me to define it. I awakened without a 
motive, feeling like a man who has spent the 
night in eating and drinking to the point of 
exhaustion. All external sensations caused me 
insupportable fatigue, all well-known objects 
of daily life repelled and annoyed me ; if I 
spoke it was in ridicule of what others thought 
or of what I thought myself. Then, extended 


222 


THE CONFESSION OF 


on the bed, as though incapable of motion, I 
dismissed all thought of undertaking whatever 
had been agreed upon the evening before; I 
recalled all the tender and loving things I had 
said to my mistress during my better moments, 
and was not satisfied until I had spoiled and 
poisoned those memories of happy days. "Can 
you not forget all that?” Brigitte would sadly 
inquire, "if there are two different men in you, 
can you not, when the bad rouses himself, for- 
get the good?” 

The patience with which Brigitte opposed 
those vagaries only served to excite my sinister 
gayety. Strange that man who suffers wishes 
to make her whom he loves suffer! To lose 
control of oneself, is that not the worst of evils? 
Is there anything more cruel for a woman than 
to hear a man turn to derision all there is that 
is sacred and mysterious? Yet she did not flee 
from me; she remained at my side while in my 
savage humor I insulted love and allowed in- 
sane ravings to escape from lips that were still 
moist with her kisses. 

On such days, contrary to my usual inclina- 
tion, I liked to talk of Paris and speak of my 
life of debauchery as the most commendable 
thing in the world. "You are nothing but a 
saint,” I would laughingly observe; "you do 
not understand what I say. There is nothing 
like those careless ones who make love without 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


223 


believing in it.” Was that not the same as 
saying that I did not believe in it? 

“Very well," Brigitte replied, “teach me how 
to please you always. I am perhaps as pretty 
as those mistresses whom you mourn ; if I have 
not their skill to divert you, I beg that you will 
instruct me. Act as though you did not love 
me and let me love you without saying any- 
thing about it. If I am devoted to religion, 
I am also devoted to love. What can I do to 
make you believe it?” 

Then she would stand before the mirror ar- 
raying herself as though for a ball, affecting 
a coquetry that she was far from feeling, try- 
ing to adopt my tone, laughing and skipping 
about the room. “Am I to your taste?” she 
would ask. “Which one of your mistresses do 
I resemble? Am I beautiful enough to make 
you forget that anyone can believe in love? 
Have I a sufficiently careless air to suit you?” 
Then in the midst of that factitious joy, she 
would turn her back and I could see her shud- 
der until the flowers she had placed in her hair 
trembled. I threw myself at her feet. 

“Stop!” I cried, “you resemble only too 
closely that which you try to imitate, that which 
my mouth has been so vile as to conjure up 
before you. Lay aside those flowers and that 
dress. Let us wash away such mimicry with a 
sincere tear; do not remind me that I am but 


224 


THE CONFESSION OF 


a prodigal son ; I remember the past too well.” 

But even this repentance was cruel as it 
proved to her that the phantoms in my heart 
were full of reality. In yielding to an impulse 
of horror I merely gave her to understand that 
her resignation and her desire to please me 
only served to call up an impure image. 

And it was true ; I reached her side trans- 
ported with joy, swearing that I would regret 
my past life ; on my knees I protested my re- 
spect for her ; then a gesture, a word, a trick 
of turning as she approached me, recalled to 
my mind the fact that such and such a woman 
had made that gesture, had used that word, had 
that same trick of turning. 

Poor devoted soul! What didst thou suffer 
in seeing me turn pale before thee, in seeing 
my arms fall as though lifeless at my side! 
When the kiss died on my lips, and the full 
glance of love, that pure ray of God’s light, 
fled from my eyes like an arrow turned by the 
wind! Ah! Brigitte! what diamonds trickled 
from thine eyes! What treasures of charity 
didst thou exhaust with patient hand! How 
pitiful thy love! 

For a long time good and bad days succeeded 
each other almost regularly ; I showed myself 
alternately cruel and scornful, tender and de- 
voted, insensible and haughty, repentant and 
submissive. The face of Desgenais which had 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


225 


at first appeared to me as though to warn me 
whither I was drifting, was now constantly be- 
fore me. On my days of doubt and coldness, I 
conversed, so to speak, with him ; often when I 
had offended Brigitte by some cruel mockery 
I said to myself : “If he were in my place he 
would do as I do!” 

And then at other times when putting on 
my hat to go to see Brigitte I would look in my 
glass and say: “What is there so terrible about 
it, anyway? I have, after all a pretty mistress ; 
she has given herself to a libertine, let her 
take me for what I am. ” I reached her side with 
a smile on my lips, I sank into a chair with an 
air of deliberate insolence; then I saw Brigitte 
approach, her large eyes filled with tenderness 
and anxiety; I seized her little hands in mine 
and lost myself in an infinite dream. 

How name a thing that is nameless? Was 
I good or bad? Was I distrustful or a fool? 
It is useless to reflect on it; it happened thus. 

One of our neighbors was a young woman by 
the name of Madam Daniel, she possessed some 
beauty, and still more coquetry; she was poor 
but tried to pass for rich ; she would come to 
see us after dinner and always played a heavy 
game against us although her losses embarrassed 
her; she sang but had no voice. In the soli- 
tude of that unknown village where an unkind 
fate had buried her, she was consumed with an 


226 


THE CONFESSION OF 


uncontrolable passion for pleasure. She talked 
of nothing but Paris, where she visited two or 
three times a year ; she pretended to keep up 
with the fashions ; my dear Brigitte assisted 
her as best she could, while smiling with pity. 
Her husband was employed by the government ; 
he once a year would take her to the house of 
the chief of his department where, attired in 
her best, the little woman danced to her heart’s 
content. She would return with shining eyes 
and tired body ; she would come to us to tell 
of her prowess, and her success in assaulting 
the masculine heart. The rest of the time she 
read novels, never taking the trouble to look 
after her household affairs, which were not 
always in the best condition. 

Everytime I saw her, I laughed at her, finding 
nothing so ridiculous as .the high life she thought 
she was leading; I would interrupt her descrip- 
tion of a ball to inquire about her husband and 
her father-in-law, both of whom she detested, 
the one because he was her husband, and the 
other because he was only a peasant ; in short, 
we were always disputing on some subject. 

In my evil moments I thought of paying 
court to that woman just for the sake of annoy- 
ing Brigitte. 

“You see,” I said, “how perfectly Madam 
Daniel understands life ! In her present spright- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


227 


ly humor could one desire a more charming 
mistress?” 

I then paid her the most extravagant compli- 
ments; her senseless chatting I described as un- 
restraint tempered by finesse, her pretentious 
exaggerations as a natural desire to please ; was 
it her fault that she was poor? At least she 
thought of nothing but pleasure and confessed it 
freely ; she did not preach sermons herself, nor 
did she listen to them from others ; I went so far 
as to tell Brigitte that she ought to adopt her 
as a model, and that she was just the kind of 
woman to please me. 

Poor Madam Daniel discovered signs of mel- 
ancholy in Brigitte’s eyes. She was a strange 
creature, as good and sincere, when you could 
get finery out of her head, as she was stupid 
when absorbed in such frivolous affairs. On 
occasion she could be both good and stupid. 
One fine day when they were walking together, 
she tnrew herself into Brigitte’s arms and told 
her that she had noticed that I was beginning 
to pay court to her, and that I had made cer- 
tain proposals to her the meaning of which 
was not doubtful ; but she knew that I was 
another’s lover, and as for her, whatever might 
happen, she would die rather than destroy the 
happiness of a friend. Brigitte thanked her, 
and Madam Daniel, having set her conscience 


228 


THE CONFESSION OF 


at ease, considered it no sin to render me deso- 
late by languishing glances. 

In the evening when she had gone Brigitte, 
in a severe tone, told me what had happened ; 
she begged me to spare her such affronts in the 
future. 

“Not that I attach any importance to such 
pleasantries,” she said, “but if you have any 
love for me, it seems to me it is useless to in- 
form a third party that there are times when 
you have not.” 

“Is it possible,” I replied with a smile, “that 
it is important? You see very well that I was 
only joking, and that I do it only to pass away 
the time.” 

“Ah! my friend, my friend,’* said Brigitte, 
“it is too bad that you must seek pastimes.” 

Some days later I proposed that we go to 
the prefecture to see Madam Daniel dance; she 
unwillingly consented. While she was arrang- 
ing her toilet, I sat near the window and re- 
proached her for losing her former cheerfulness. 

“What is the matter with }'ou?” I asked. (I 
knew as well as she). “Why that morose air 
that never leaves you? In truth, you make our 
life quite sad. I have known you when you 
were more joyous, more free and more open ; 
I am not flattered by the thought that I am 
responsible for the change. But you have a 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


229 


cloistral disposition ; you were born to live in 
a convent. ” 

It was Sunday; as we were driving down the 
road Brigitte ordered the carriage to stop in 
order to say good evening to some friends, 
fresh and vigorous country girls, who were 
going to dance at Tilleuls. When they nad 
gone on Brigitte followed them with longing 
eyes; her little rustic dance was very dear to her; 
she dried her eyes with her handkerchief. 

We found Madam Daniel at the prefecture 
in high feather. I danced with her so often 
that it excited comment, I paid her a thousand 
compliments and she replied as best she could. 

Brigitte was near us, and her eyes never left 
us. I can hardly describe what I felt; it was 
both pleasure and pain. I clearly saw that she 
was jealous ; but instead of being moved by it 
I did all I could to increase her suffering. 

On the return I expected to hear her re- 
proaches; she made none, but remained silent 
for three days. When I came to see her she 
would greet me kindly ; then we would sit down 
facing each other, both of us pre-occupied, 
scarcely exchanging a word. The third day 
she spoke, overwhelmed me with bitter re- 
proaches, told me that my conduct was unrea- 
sonable, that she could not account for it ex- 
cept on the supposition that I had ceased to 
love her; but she could not endure this life 


THE CONFESSION OF 


2JO 

and would resort to anything rather than submit 
to my caprices and coldness. Her eyes were 
full of tears, and I was about to ask her pardon 
when some words escaped her that were so 
bitter that my pride revolted. I replied in the 
same tone, and our quarrel became violent. I 
told her that it was absurd to suppose that I 
could not inspire enough confidence in my mis- 
tress to escape the necessity of explaining my 
every action ; that Madam Daniel was only a 
pretext ; that she verj' well knew that I did not 
think of that woman seriously; that her pre- 
tended jealousy was nothing but the expression 
of her desire for despotic power, and that, 
moreover, if she had tired of this life, it was 
easy enough to put an end to it. 

“Very well,” she replied; "it is true that I 
do not recognize you as the same man I first 
knew; you doubtless performed a little comedy 
to persuade me that you loved me ; you are 
tired of your role and can think of nothing but 
abuse. You suspect me of deceiving you upon 
the first word, and I am under no obligation 
to submit to your insults. You are no longer 
the man I loved.” 

“1 know what your sufferings are,” I replied. 
“I can not make a step without exciting your 
alarm. Soon I will not be permitted to address 
a word to any one but you. You pretend that 
you have been abused in order that you may 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


231 


be justified in offering insult; you accuse me 
of tyranny in order that I may become your 
slave. Since I trouble your repose, I leave you 
in peace; you will never see me again.” 

We parted in anger, and I passed an entire day 
without seeing her. The next night, toward 
midnight, I was seized by a feeling of melan- 
choly that I could not resist. I shed a torrent 
of tears ; I overwhelmed myself with reproaches 
that I richly deserved. I told myself that I 
was nothing but a fool, and a cowardly fool at 
that, to make the noblest, the best of creatures, 
suffer in this way. I ran to her to throw my- 
self at her feet. 

Entering the garden I saw that her room was 
lighted and a flash of suspicion crossed my 
mind. “She does not expect me at this hour, ” 
I said to myself; ‘‘who knows what she maybe 
doing. I left her in tears } 7 esterday; I may 
find her ready to sing to day and caring no 
more for me than if I never existed. I must 
enter gently in order to surprise her.” 

I advanced on tip-toe, and the door being 
open, I could see Brigitte without being seen. 

She was seated at her table and was writing 
in that same book that had aroused my suspic- 
ions. She held in her left hand a little box of 
white wood which she looked at from time to 
time and trembled. There was something sin- 
ister in the quiet that reigned in the room. 


232 


THE CONFESSION OF 


Her secretary was open and several bundles of 
papers were carefully ranged in order. 

I made some noise at the door. She rose, 
went to the secretary, closed it, then came to 
me with a smile: 

“Octave,” she said, “we are two children. If 
you had not come here, I would have gone to 
you. Pardon me, I was wrong. Madam Dan- 
iel comes to dinner to-morrow ; make me repent, 
if you choose, of what you call my despotism. 
If you but love me I am happy; let us forget 
what is past and let us not spoil our happiness. " 


CHAPTER III 

Our quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad 
than our reconcilation ; it was attended, on 
Brigitte’s part, by a mystery which frightened 
me at first and then planted in my soul the 
seeds of constant dread. 

There developed in me, in spite of my strug 
gles, the two elements of misfortune which the 
past had bequeathed me : at times furious jeal- 
ousy attended by reproaches and insults; at 
other times a cruel gayety, an affected cheerful- 
ness that mockingly outraged whatever I held 
most dear. Thus the inexorable spectres of 
the past pursued me without respite ; thus Bri- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


233 


gitte, seeing herself treated alternately as a 
faithless mistress and a shameless woman, fell 
into a condition of melancholy that clouded 
our entire life; and worst of all, that sadness 
even, the cause of which I knew, was not the 
most burdensome of our sorrows. I was young 
and I loved pleasure ; that daily association 
with a woman older than I who suffered and 
languished, that face more and more serious 
which was always before me, all that repelled 
my youth and aroused within me bitter regrets 
for the liberty I had lost. 

When we were passing through the forest by 
the beautiful light of the moon, we both expe- 
rienced a profound melancholy. Brigitte looked 
at me in pity. We sat down on a rock near 
a wild gorge; we passed two entire hours there ; 
her half-veiled eyes plunged into my soul 
athwart the glance from mine, then wandered 
to nature, to the heavens and the valley. 

“Ah! my dear child,” she said, “how I pity 
you! You do not love me." 

In order to reach that rock one must travel 
two leagues ; two more in returning makes four. 
Brigitte was afraid of neither fatigue nor dark- 
ness. We set out at eleven at night, expect- 
ing to reach home sometime in the morning. 
When we went on long tramps she always 
dressed in blue blouse and the apparel of a 
man, saying that skirts were not made for 


234 


THE CONFESSION OF 


bushes. She walked before me in the sand 
with a firm step and such a charming melange 
of feminine delicacy and childlike termerity, 
that I stopped every few moments to look at her. 
It seemed that, once started, she had to ac- 
complish a difficult but sacred task ; she walked 
in front like a soldier, her arms swinging, her 
voice ringing through the woods in song ; sud- 
denly she turned, came to me and kissed me. 
This was going; on the return she leaned on 
my arm; then more songs; there were confi- 
dences, tender avowals in low tones, although 
we were alone two leagues from anywhere. I 
do not recall a single word spoken on the re- 
turn that was not of love or friendship. 

One night we struck out through the woods, 
leaving the road which led to the rock. Brigitte 
was tramping along so stoutly, her little velvet 
cap on her light hair, made her look so much 
like a resolute gamin, that I forgot that she 
was a woman when there were no obstacles in 
our path. More than once she was obliged to 
call me to her aid when I, without thinking of 
her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe 
the effect produced on me in the clear night 
air, in the midst of the forest, by that voice of 
a woman, half-joyous and half-plaintive, com- 
ing from that little school-boy body wedged in 
between roots and trunks of trees, unable to 
advance. I took her in my arms. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


235 


“Come, madam,” I cried laughing, “you are 
a pretty little mountaineer, but you are blis- 
tering your white hands and in spite of your 
hob-nailed shoes, your stick and your martial 
air, I see that you must be carried.” 

We arrived at the rock breathless, about my 
body was strapped a leather belt to which was 
attached a wicker bottle. When we were seated 
on the rock, my dear Brigitte asked for the 
bottle ; I had lost it, as well as a tinder-box 
which served another purpose: that was to read 
the inscriptions on the guide posts when we 
went astray which occurred frequently. At such 
times I would climb the posts, and read the 
half-effaced inscription by the light of the tin- 
der-box; all that playfully, like the children 
that we were. At a crossroad we would have 
to examine not one guide-post but five or six 
until the right one was found. But this time 
we had lost our baggage on the way. 

“Very well,” said Brigitte, “we will pass the 
night here as I am rather tired. This rock will 
make a hard bed but we can cover it with dry 
leaves. Let us sit down and make the best of 
it. ” 

The night was superb; the moon was rising 
behind us; I looked at it over my left shoulder. 
Brigitte was watching the lines of the wooded 
hills as they began to design themselves against 
the background of sky. As the light flooded 


236 


THE CONFESSION OF 


the copse and threw its halo over sleeping nature, 
Brigette’s song became more gentle and more 
melancholy. Then she bent over, and, throw- 
ing her arms around my neck, said : 

"Do not think that I do not understand your 
heart or that I would reproach )'ou for what 
you make me suffer. It is not your fault, my 
friend, if you have not the power to forget your 
past life; you have loved me in good faith and 
I shall never regret, although I should die for 
it, the day I gave myself to you. You thought 
you were entering upon a new life and that with 
me you would forget the women who had de- 
ceived you. Alas l Octave, I used to smile at 
that precocious experience which you said you 
had been through, and of which I heard you 
boast like a child who knows nothing of life. 
I thought I had but to will it and all that there 
was that was good in your heart would come to 
your lips with my first kiss. You, too, believed 
it, but we were both mistaken. O, my child! 
You have in your heart a plague that can not 
be cured ; that woman who deceived }'ou, how 
you must have loved her! Yes, more than you 
love me, alas! much more, since with all my 
poor love I can not efface her image; she must 
have deceived you most cruelly since it is in 
vain that I am faithful ! And the others, those 
wretches who then poisoned your youth! The 
pleasures they sold must have been terrible 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


237 


since you ask me to imitate them ! You re- 
member them with me! Alas! my dear child, 
that is too cruel. I like you better when you 
are unjust and furious, when you reproach me 
for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the 
wrong done you by others, than when you are 
under the influence of that frightful gayety,when 
you assume that air of hideous mockery, when 
that mask of scorn affronts my eyes. Tell me, 
Octave, why that? Why those moments when 
you speak of love with contempt and rail at 
the most sacred mj'steries of love? What fright- 
ful power over your irritable nerves has that 
life you have led, that such insults mount to your 
lips in spite of you? Yes, in spite of you, for 
your heart is noble, you blush at your own blas- 
phemy; you love me too much not to suffer 
when you see me suffer. Ah! I know you now. 
The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with 
a feeling of terror of which I can give you no 
idea. I thought you were only a roue, that you 
had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love 
you did not feel, and that I saw you such as 
you really were. O, my friend! I thought 
it was time to die ; what a night I passed ! You 
do not know my life; you do not know that I 
who speak to you, have had an experience as 
terrible as yours. Alas! life is sweet only to 
those who do not know life. 

“You are not, my dear Octave, the only man 


238 


THE CONFESSION OF 


I have loved. There is hidden in my heart a 
fatal story that I wish you to know. My father 
destined me, when I was quite young, for the 
only son of an old friend. They were neigh- 
bors and each owned a little domain of almost 
equal value. The two families saw each other 
every day and lived, so to speak, together. 
My father died ; my mother had been dead 
some time. I lived with an aunt whom you 
know. A journey she was compelled to take 
forced her to confide me to the care of my 
future father-in-law. He called me his daug-hter 
and it was so well known about the country 
that I was to marry his son that we were allowed 
the greatest liberty together. 

“That young man, whose name you need not 
know, appeared to love me. What had been 
friendship from infancy became love in time. 
He began to tell me of the happiness that 
awaited us ; he spoke of his impatience, I was 
only one year younger than he; but he had made 
the acquaintance of a man of dissipated habits 
who lived in the vicinity, a sort of adventurer 
and had listened to his evil suggestions. While 
I was yielding to his caresses with the confi- 
ence of a child, he resolved to deceive his father 
and to abandon me after having ruined me. 

“His father called us into his room one even- 
ing and in the presence of the family, set the 
day of our wedding. The very evening before 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


239 


that day he met me in the garden and spoke 
to me of love with more force than usual ; he 
said that since the time was set, we were just 
the same as married, and for that matter had 
been in the eyes of God, ever since our birth. 
I have no other excuse to offer than my youth, 
my ignorance and my confidence in him. I 
gave myself to him before becoming his wife, 
and eight days afterward he left his father’s 
house ; he fled with a woman his new friend 
had made him acquainted with; he wrote that 
he had set out for Germany and that we would 
never see him again. 

“That is, in a word, the story of my life; my 
husband knew it as you now know it. I am 
proud, my child, and I have sworn that no man 
should ever make me again suffer what I suffered 
then. I saw you and forgot my oath, but not 
my sorrow. You must treat me gently; if you 
are sick, I am also ; we must care for each other. 
You see, Octave, I too, know what it is to cher- 
\ish up memories of the past. It inspires me 
at times with cruel terror; I should have more 
courage than you, for perhaps I have suffered 
more. It is my place to begin; my heart is 
not sure of itself, I am still very feeble ; my 
life in this village was so tranquil before you 
\eame! I had promised myself that it should 
never change ! All that makes me exacting. 
Ah! well, it does not matter, I am yours. You 


240 


THE CONFESSION OF 


have told me, in your better moments, that Pro- 
vidence appointed me to watch over you as a 
mother. Yes, when you make me suffer I do 
not look upon you as a lover, but as a sick 
child, fretful and rebellious, that I must care 
for and cure in order that I may always keep 
him and love him. May God give me that 
power !" she added looking up to heaven. “May 
God who sees me, who hears us, may the God 
of mothers and of lovers permit me to accom- 
plish that task! When I feel as though I would 
sink under it, when my pride rebels, when my 
heart is breaking, when all my life ” 

She could not finish ; her tears choked her. 
Oh ! God ! I saw her there on her knees, her 
hands clasped on the rock ; she swayed in the 
breeze as did the bushes about us. Frail and 
sublime creature ! she prayed for her love. I 
raised her in my arms. 

“Oh! my only friend,” I cried, “Oh! my mis- 
tress, my mother, and my sister! Pray also for 
me that I may be able to love you as you de- 
serve. Pray that I may have the courage to 
live; that my heart may be cleansed in your 
tears ; that it may become a holy offering be- 
fore God and that we may share it together.” 

All was silent about us ; above our heads 
spread the heavens resplendent with stars. 

“Do you remember,” I said, “do you remem- 
ber the first day?” 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


241 


From that night we never returned to that 
spot. That rock was an altar which has re- 
tained its purity; it is one of the visions of my 
life which still passes before my eyes wreathed 
in spotless white. 


CHAPTER IV 

As I was crossing the public square one even- 
ing I saw two men standing together; one of 
them said : 

“It appears to me that he has ill-treated her.” 

“It is her fault,” replied the other; “why 
choose such a man? He has known only pub- 
lic women ; she is paying the price of her folly. ” 

I advanced in the darkness to see who was 
speaking thus, and to hear more if possible ; 
but they passed on as soon as they spied me. 

I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt 
was seriously ill ; she had time for only a few 
words with me. I did not see her for an entire 
week ; I knew that she had summoned a phy- 
sician from Paris; finally she sent for me. 

“My aunt is dead,” she said ; “I lose the only 
one left me on earth, I am now alone in the 
world and I am going to leave the country. 

“Am I, then, nothing to you?” 

“Yes, my friend ; you know that I love you, 
and I often believe that you love me. But 

16 


242 


THE CONFESSION OF 


how can I count on you? I am your mistress, 
alas! but you are not my lover. It is for you 
that Shakespeare has written these sad words: 
‘Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy 
mind is a, very opal. ’ And I, Octave, ” she add- 
ed pointing to her mourning costume, “I am 
reduced to a single color, and I shall not change 
it for a long time. " 

“Leave the country if you choose; I will 
either kill myself or I will follow you. Ah ! 
Brigitte,” I continued, throwing myself on my 
knees before her, “you thought you were alone 
when your aunt died ! That is the most cruel 
punishment you could inflict on me; never 
have I so keenly felt the misery of my lpve for 
you. You must retract those terrible words ; 
I deserve them, but they will kill me. O, God! 
can it be true that I count for nothing in your 
life, or that I am an influence in your life only 
because of the evil I have done you! 

“I do not know,” she said, “who is busying 
himself in our affairs; certain insinuations 
mixed with idle gossip have been set afloat in 
the village and in the neighboring country. 
Some say that I have been ruined ; others ac- 
cuse me of imprudence and folly; others repre- 
sent you as a. cruel and dangerous man. Some 
one has spied into our most secret thoughts ; 
things that I thought no one else knew, events 
in your life and sad scenes to which they have 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


243 


led, are known to others; my poor aunt spoke 
to me about it some time since, and she knew 
it some time before speaking to me. Who 
knows but that that has hastened her death? 
When I meet my old friends in the street, they 
either treat me coldly, or turn aside, even my 
dear peasant girls, those good girls who love 
me so much, shrug their shoulders when they 
see my place empty at the Sunday afternoon 
balls. How has that come about? I do not 
know, nor do you, I suppose ; but I must go away, 

I can not endure it. And my aunt’s death, 
so sudden, so unexpected, above all this soli- 
tude! this empty room ! Courage fails me. my 
friend, my friend, do not abandon me!” 

She wept ; in an adjoining room, I saw her 
household goods in disorder, a trunk on the 
floor, everything indicating preparations for 
departure. It was evident that at the time of 
her aunt’s death, Brigitte tried to go away -with- 
out seeing me but could not. She was so over- 
whelmed with emotion that she could hardly 
speak, her condition was pitiful, and it was 
I who had brought her to it. Not only was 
she unhappy, but she was insulted in public, 
and the man who ought to be her support, and 
her consolation in such an hour, was the cause 
of all her troubles. 

I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly, 
that I was overcome with shame. After so 


THE CONFESSION OF 


244 

many promises, so much useless exaltation, so 
many plans and hopes, what had I in fact ac- 
complished in three months! I thought I had 
a treasure in my heart and there came out of it 
nothing but malice, the shadow of a dream, and 
the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the 
first time I found myself really face to face 
with myself ; Brigitte reproached me for noth- 
ing ; she had tried to go away and could not ; 
she was ready to suffer still. I suddenly asked 
myself if I ought not to leave her, if it was not 
my duty to flee from her and rid her of the 
scourge of my presence. 

I arose and passing into the next room sat 
down on Brigitte’s trunk. There, I leaned my 
head on my hand and sat motionless. I looked 
about me at the confused piles of goods, Alas! 
I knew them all; my heart was not so hardened 
that it could not be moved by the memories 
which they awakened. I began to calculate all 
the harm I had done ; I saw my dear Brigitte 
walking under the lindens with her goat beside 
her. 

“O, man!” I mused, “and by what right? 
How dared you come to this house, and lay 
hands on this woman? Who has ordained that 
she should suffer for you? You array yourself 
in fine linen, and set out sleek and happy, for 
the home where your mistress languishes ; you 
throw yourself upon the cushions where she 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 245 

has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, 
and you gently stroke those delicate hands that 
still tremble. You think it no evil to inflame 
a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in 
your deliriums of love, as the wretched lawyer 
who comes with red eyes from a suit he has 
lost. You play the infant prodigy, you make 
sport of suffering ; you find it amusing to oc- 
cupy your leisure moments, to commit murder 
by means of little pin pricks. What will you 
say to the living God, when your work is fin- 
ished? What will become of the woman who 
loves you? Where will you fall while she leans 
on you for support? With what face will you 
one day bury your pale and wretched creature, 
who has just buried the only being who was left 
to protect her? Yes, yes, you will doubtless have 
to bury her, for your love kills and consumes; 
you have devoted her to the furies and it is 
she who appeases them. If you follow that 
woman you will be the cause of her death. 
Take care! her guardian angel hesitates; he 
has just knocked at the door of this house, in 
order to frighten away a fatal and shameful 
passion! He inspired Brigitte with the idea 
of flight ; at this moment he may be whisper- 
ing in her ear his final warning. O, you as- 
sassin! You murderer! beware! it is a matter 
of life and death. ” 

Thus I communed with myself ; then on the 


246 THE CONFESSION OF 

sofa I caught sight of a little gingham dress, 
folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. 
It had been the witness of our happy days. I 
took it up and examined it. 

"I leave you!” I said to it ; I lose you! O, 
little dress, would you go away without me?” 

No, I can not abandon Brigitte; under the 
circumstances it would be cowardly. She has 
just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is ex- 
posed to the power of I know not what enemy. 
Can it be Mercanson? He may have spoken 
of my conversation with him, and seeing that I 
was jealous of Dalens, may have guessed the 
rest. Assuredly he is the snake who has been 
hissing about my well-beloved flower. I must 
punish him, and I must repair the wrong I 
have done Brigitte. Fool that I am! I think 
of leaving her when I ought to consecrate my 
life to her, to the expiation of my sins, to ren- 
dering her happy after the tears I have drawn 
from her eyes ! When I am her only support 
in t*he world, her only friend, her only protec- 
tion! When I ought to follow her to the end 
of the world, to shelter her with my body, to 
console her for having loved me, for having 
given herself to me! 

“Brigitte!” I cried, returning to her room, 
"wait an hour for me and I will return.” 

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“Wait for me," I replied, “do not set out 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


247 


without me. Remember the words of Ruth : 
‘Whither thou goest, I shall go; and where 
thou lodgest I will lodge ; thy people shall be 
my people, and thy God my God, where thou 
diest will I die, and there will I be buried.’” 

J left her precipitately, and rushed out to find 
Mercanson. I was told that he had gone out, 
and I entered his house to wait for him. 

I sat in the corner of the room on a priest’s 
chair before a dirty black table. I was becom- 
ing impatient when I recalled my duel on ac- 
count of my first mistress. 

“1 received a wound from a bullet and am 
still a fool,” I said to myself. “What have I 
come to do here? This priest will not fight ; if 
I seek a quarrel with him, he will say that his 
priestly robes forbid and he will continue his 
vile gossip when I have gone. Moreover, what 
can I hold him responsible for. What is it 
that has disturbed Brigitte? They say that her 
reputation has been sullied, that I ill-treat her 
and that she ought not to submit to it. What 
stupidity! that concerns no one, there is noth- 
ing to do but allow them to talk; in such a 
case, to notice an insult is to give it impor- 
tance. Is it possible to prevent provincials 
from talking about their neighbors? Can any 
one prevent a gossip from maligning a woman 
who loves? What measures can be taken to 
stop a public rumor? If they say that I ill-treat 


248 


THE CONFESSION OF 


her, it is for me to prove the contrary by my 
conduct with her, and not by violence. It 
would be as ridiculous to seek a quarrel with 
Mercanson, as to leave the country on account 
of gossip. No, we must not leave the country; 
that would be a bad move ; that would be to 
say to all the world, that there is truth in its 
idle rumors, and to give excuse to the gossips. 
We must neither go away nor take any notice 
of such things.” 

I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had 
passed, and I had changed my mind three 
times. I dissuaded her from her plans, I told 
her what I had just done and why I had not 
carried out my first impulse. She listened re- 
signedly, yet she wished to go away; the house 
where her aunt had died, had become odious 
to her, much effort and persuasion on my part 
were required to get her to consent to remain ; 
finally I accomplished it. We repeated that 
we would despise the world, that we would 
yield nothing, that we would not change our 
manner of life. I swore that my love should 
console her for all her sorrows, and she pre- 
tended to hope for the best. I told her that 
this circumstance had so enlightened me in the 
matter of the wrongs I had done her, that my 
conduct would prove my repentance, that I 
would drive from me as a phanton, all the evil 
that remained in my heart, that henceforth she 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


249 


would not be offended, by either my pride or my 
caprices; and thus, sad and patient, her arms 
around my neck, she yielded obedience to the 
pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash 
of reason. 


CHAPTER V 

One day I saw a little chamber she called 
her oratory ; there was no furniture except a 
priedieu and a little altar with a cross and 
some vases of flowers. As for the rest, the 
walls and curtains were as white as snow. She 
shut herself up in that room at times, but rarely 
since I had known her. . 

I stepped to the door and saw Brigitte seated 
on the floor in the middle of the room surround- 
ed by the flowers she was throwing here and 
there. She held in her hand a little wreath 
that appeared to be made of dried grass, and 
she was breaking it to pieces. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. 

She trembled and stood up. 

“It is nothing but a child’s plaything," she 
said; "it is a rose wreath that has faded here 
in the oratory ; I have come here to change my 
flowers as I have not attended to them for some 
time. ” 

Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be 


250 


THE CONFESSION OF 


about to faint. I recalled that name of Bri- 
gitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I 
asked her if it was not her crown of roses that 
she had just broken thus. 

“No,” she replied, turning pale. 

“Yes,” I cried, “yes, on my life. Give me 
the pieces.” 

I gathered them up and placed them on the 
altar, then I was silent, my e3^es fixed on the 
offering. 

“Was I not right,” she asked, “if it was my 
crown, to take it from the wall where it has 
hung so long? What good are these remains? 
Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor the flowers 
that baptized her.” 

She went out ; I heard her sob, and the door 
closed on me; I fell on my knees and wept 
bitterly. 

When I returned to her room, I found her 
waiting for me ; dinner was ready. I took my 
place in silence, and not a word was said of 
what was on our hearts. 


CHAPTER VI 

It was Mercanson who had repeated in the 
village and in the chateaux my conversation 
with him about Dalens and the suspicions that, 
in spite of myself, I had allowed him clearly to 
see. Everyone knows how bad news travels in 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


251 


the provinces, flying from mouth to mouth and 
growing as it flies ; that is what happened in 
this case. 

Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face 
with each other in a new position. However 
feebly she may have tried to flee, she had 
nevertheless made the attempt. It was on ac- 
count of my prayers that she remained ; there 
was an obligation implied. I was under oath 
not to grieve her either by my jealousy or my 
levity; every thoughtless or mocking word that 
escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance 
from her was a reproach acknowledged and 
merited. 

Her simple good-nature gave a charm even 
to solitude; she could see me now at all hours 
without resorting to any precaution. Perhaps 
she consented to this arrangement in order to 
prove to me that she valued her love more 
highly than her reputation; she seemed to re- 
gret having shown that she cared for the rep- 
resentations of malice. At any rate instead of 
making any attempt to disarm criticism or 
thwart curiosity, we lived the freest kind of 
life, more regardless of public opinion than 
ever. 

For some time I kept my word and not a 
cloud troubled our life. These were happy days, 
but it is not of these that I must speak. 

It was said everywhere about the country 


252 


THE CONFESSION OF 


x 


that Brigitte was living publicly with a liber- 
tine from Paris; that her lover ill-treated her, 
that they spent their time quarreling and that 
all that would come to a bad end. As they had 
praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so 
they blamed her now. There was nothing in 
her past life even, that was not picked to pieces 
and misrepresented. Her lonely tramps over 
the mountains when engaged in works of char- 
ity suddenly became the subject of quibbles 
and of raillery. They spoke of her as of a 
woman who had lost all human respect and 
who deserved the frightful misfortunes she was 
drawing down on her head. 

I had told Brigitte that it was best to let 
them talk and pay no attention to them ; but 
the truth is, it became insupportable to me. I 
sometimes tried to catch a word that I might 
consider an insult and demand an explanation. 

I listened to whispered conversations in a salon 
where I was a visitor, but could hear nothing ; 
in order to do us better justice they waited 
until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte and 
told her that all these stories were mere non- 
sense, that it was foolish to notice them ; that 
they could talk about us as much as they pleased 
and we would care nothing about it. 

Was I not terribly mistaken? If Brigitte 
was imprudent, was it not my place to be cau- 
tious and ward off danger? On the contrary, I 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


253 


took, so to speak the part of the world against 
her. 

I began by indifference; I was soon to grow 
malignant. 

“It is true,” I said, “that they speak evil of 
your nocturnal excursions. Are you sure that 
they are wrong? Has nothing happened in 
those romantic grottoes and by paths in the for- 
est? Have you never accepted the arm of an 
unknown as you accepted mine ? Was it merely 
charity that served as your divinity in that 
beautiful temple of verdure that you visited so 
bravely?” 

Brigitte’s glance when I adopted this tone I 
shall never forget ; I shuddered at it myself. 
“But, bah,” I thought, “she would do the same 
thing my other mistress did, she would point 
me out as a ridiculous fool, and I would pay 
for it all in the eyes of the public.” 

Between the man who doubts, and the man 
who denies, there is only a step. All philoso- 
phy is related to atheism. After having told 
Brigitte that I suspected her past conduct, I be- 
gan to regard it with real suspicion. 

I came to imagine that Brigitte was deceiv- 
ing me, she who never left me at any hour of 
the day ; I sometimes planned long absences 
in order to test her as I supposed ; but in truth 
it was only to give myself some excuse for sus- 
picion and mockery. And then I took pleasure 


254 


THE CONFESSION OF 


in observing that I had outgrown my foolish 
jealousy, which was the same as saying that I no 
longer esteemed her highly enough to be jeal- 
ous of her. 

At first I kept such thoughts to myself, but 
soon found pleasure in revealing them to Bri- 
gitte. We went out for a walk : 

“That dress is pretty,” I said, “such and such 
a girl, belonging to one of my friends, has one 
like it.” 

We were seated at table. 

“Come my dear, my former mistress used to 
sing for me at dessert ; it is understood that you 
are to imitate her.” 

She sat at the piano. 

“Ah! pardon me, but will 3^011 play that waltz 
that was so popular last winter; that will re- 
mind me of happy times.” 

Reader, that lasted six months : for six long 
months, Brigitte, scandalized, exposed to the 
insults of the world, had to endure from me all 
the wrongs that a wrathful and cruel libertine 
could inflict on woman. 

Coming from these frightful scenes, in which 
my own spirit exhausted itself in suffering and 
painful contemplation of the past; recovering 
from that frenzy, a strange access of love, an ex- 
treme exaltation, led me to treat my mistress like 
an idol, like a divinity. A quarter of an hour 
after having insulted her I was on my knees be- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


255 


fore her; when I was not accusing her of some 
crime, I was begging her pardon; when I was not 
mocking, I was weeping. Then I was seized by a 
delirium of joy, I almost lost my reason in the 
violence of my transports; I did not know what 
to do, what to say, what to think, in order to re- 
pair the evil I had done. I took Brigitte in my 
arms, and made her repeat a hundred times 
that she loved me and that she pardoned me. 
I threatened to expiate my evil deeds by blow- 
ing out my brains if I ever ill-treated her again. 
These periods of exaltation sometimes lasted 
several hours, during which time I exhausted 
myself in foolish expressions of love and esteem. 
Then morning came ; day appeared ; I fell 
asleep from sheer exhaustion, and I awakened 
with a smile on my lips, mocking at every- 
thing, believing in nothing. 

. During these terrible hours, Brigitte ap- 
peared to forget that there was another man 
in me than the one she saw. When I asked her 
pardon she shrugged her shoulders as though 
to say: “Do you not know that I pardon you?” 
She would not complain as long as a spark of 
love remained in my heart ; she assured me 
that all was good and sweet coming from me, 
insults as well as tears. 

And yet as time passed my evil grew worse 
my moments of malignity and irony became 
more sombre and intractable. A real physical 


256 


THE CONFESSION OF 


fever attended my outbursts of passion ; I awak- 
ened trembling in every limb and covered with 
cold sweat. Brigitte, too, although she did 
not complain of it, began to fail in health. 
When I began to abuse her she would leave 
me without a word and lock herself in her room. 
Thank God, I have never raised my hand against 
her ; in my most violent moments I would 
rather die than touch her. 

One evening the rain was driving against the 
windows ; we were alone, the curtains closed. 

“I am in happy humor this evening,” I said 
to Brigitte, “and yet the beastly weather sad- 
dens me. Let us seek some diversion in spite 
of the storm.” 

I arose and lighted all the candles I could 
find. The room was small and the illumination 
brilliant. At the same time a bright fire threw 
out a stifling heat. 

“Come,” I said, “what shall we do while wait- 
ing until it is time for supper?” 

I happened to remember that it was carnival 
time in Paris. I seemed to see the carriages 
filled with masks crossing the boulevards. I 
heard the shouts of the crowds before the the- 
atres ; I saw the lascivious dances, the gay 
costumes, the wine and the folly; all of my 
youth bounded in my heart. 

“Let us disguise ourselves,” I said to Bri- 
gitte. “It will be for us alone, but what does 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


257 


that matter? If you have no costumes we can 
make them and pass away the time agreeably.” 

We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks, 
and artificial flowers; Brigitte as usual, was pa- 
tient and cheerful. We both arranged a sort 
of travesty ; she wanted to dress my hair her- 
self ; we painted and powdered ourselves freely ; 
all that we lacked was found in an old chest 
that belonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an 
hour we could not recognize each other. The 
evening passed in singing, in a thousand fol- 
lies ; toward one in the morning it was time 
for supper. 

We had ransacked all the closets; there was 
one near me that remained open. While sit 
ting down at the table, I perceived on a shelf 
the book of which I have already spoken, the 
one in which Brigitte was accustomed to write. 

“Is it not a collection of your thoughts?” I 
asked stretching out my hand and taking the 
book down. “If I may, allow me to look at it.” 

I opened the book although Brigitte made a 
gesture as though to prevent me; on the first 
page I read these words : 

“This is my last will and testament." 

Everything was written in a firm hand ; I 
found first a faithful recital of all that Brigitte 
had suffered on my account since she had been 
my mistress. She announced her firm deter- 
mination to endure everything, so long as I 


2 5 8 


THE CONFESSION OF 


loved her and to die when I left her. Her daily 
life was recorded there ; what she had lost, 
what she had hoped, the isolation she experi- 
enced even in my presence, the barrier that 
was growing up between us, the cruelties I sub- 
jected her to in return for her love and her res- 
ignation ; all that was written down without a 
complaint ; on the contrary she undertook to 
justify me. Then followed personal details, 
the disposition of her effects. She would end 
her life by poison, she wrote. She would die 
by her own hand and expressly forbid that her 
death should be charged to me. “Pray for him, ” 
such were her last words. 

I found in the closet on. the same shelf a lit- 
tle box that I remembered I had seen before, 
filled with a fine bluish powder resembling salt. 

“What is this?” I asked of Brigitte raising 
the box to my lips. She gave vent to a scream 
of terror and threw herself upon me. 

“Brigitte,” I said, “tell me adieu. I shall 
carry this box away with me ; you will forget 
me, and you will live if you wish to save me 
from becoming a murderer. I will set out this 
very night ; you will agree with me that God 
demands it. Give me a last kiss." 

I bent over her and kissed her forehead. 

“Not yet, ” she cried in anguish. But I re- 
pulsed her and left the room. 

Three hours later I was ready to set out, and 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


259 


the horses were at the door. It was still rain- 
ing when I entered the carriage. At the mo- 
ment the carriage was starting, I. felt two arms 
about my neck .and a sob on my breast. 

It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade 
her to remain ; I ordered the driver to stop ; I 
even told her that I would return to her when 
time should have effaced the memory of the 
wrongs I had done her. I forced myself to 
prove to her that yesterday was the same as 
to-day, to-day as yesterday ; I repeated that I 
could only render her unhappy, that to attach 
herself to me was but to make an assassin of 
me. I resorted to prayers, to vows, to threats 
even; her oply reply was, “You are going away, 
take me, let us take leave of the country, let us 
take leave of the past. We can not live here, 
let us go elsewhere, wherever you please let us 
go and die together in some remote corner of 
the world. We must be happy, I by you, you 
by me.” 

I kissed her with such passion that I feared 
my heart would burst. 

“Drive on,” I cried to the coachman. We 
threw ourselves into each other’s arms, and the 
horses set out at a gallop. 


PART V 


CHAPTER I 

Having decided on a long tour we went* first 
to Paris ; the necessary preparations required 
time and we took a furnished apartment for 
one month. 

The decision to leave France had changed 
everything: joy, hope, confidence, all returned ; 
no more sorrow, no more grief over approach- 
ing separation. It was now nothing but dreams 
of happiness and vows of eternal love; I wished, 
once for all, to make my dear mistress forget 
all the suffering I had caused her. How had 
I been able to resist such proofs of tender affec- 
tion and courageous resignation? Not only did 
Brigitte pardon me but she was willing to make 
a still greater sacrifice and leave everything for 
me. As I felt myself unworthy of the devotion 
she exhibited, I wished to requite her by my 
love; at last my good angel had triumphed, 
and admiration and love resumed their sway 
in my heart. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


26 1 


Brigitte and I examined a map to determine 
where we should go to bury ourselves from the 
world; we had not yet decided and we found 
pl-easure in that very uncertainty ; while glanc- 
ing over the map we said : 

“Where shall we go? What shall we do? 
Where shall we begin life anew?” 

How shall I tell how deeply I repented my 
cruelty when 1 looked upon her smiling face, a 
face that laughed at the future, although still 
pale from the sorrows of the past! Happy 
projects of future joy, you are perhaps the only 
true happiness known to man! 

For eight days we spent our time making 
purchases and preparing for our departure; 
then a young man presented himself at our 
apartments : he brought letters to Brigitte. 
After their interview I found her sad and dis- 
traught ; but I could not guess the cause unless 

the letters were from N , that village where 

I had confessed my love and where Brigitte’s 
only relatives lived. 

Nevertheless, our preparations progressed 
rapidly and I became impatient to get away; 
at the same time I was so happy that I could 
hardly rest. When I arose in the morning and 
the sun was shining through our windows I ex- 
perienced such transports of joy that I was 
almost intoxicated with happiness. So anxious 
was I to prove the sincerity of my love for 


262 


THE CONFESSION OF 


Brigitte, that I hardly dared kiss the hem of 
her dress. Her lightest words made me trem- 
ble as though her voice was strange to me ; I 
alternated between tears and laughter, and -I 
never spoke of the past except with horror and 
disgust. 

Our room was full of our goods scattered 
about in disorder, albums, pictures, books, and 
the dear map we loved so much. We were 
going and coming about the room ; every few 
moments I would stop and kneel before Bri- 
gitte who would call me an idler, saying that 
she had to do all the work, and that I was good 
for nothing; and all sorts of projects flitted 
through our minds. Sicily was far away, but 
the winters are so delightful there! Genoa is 
very pretty with its painted houses, its green 
gardens and the Apennines in the back-ground! 
But what noise! What crowds! Out of every 
three men on the street, one is a monk and an- 
other a soldier. Florence is sad, it is the Middle 
Ages living in the midst of modern life. How 
can anyone endure those grilled windows and 
that horrible brown color with which all the 
houses are soiled? What could we do at Rome? 
We are not traveling in order to forget our- 
selves, much less for the sake of instruction. 
To the Rhine? But the season is over, and 
although we do not care for the world of fash- 
ion, still it is sad to visit its haunts when it 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


263 


has fled them. But Spain? Too many restric- 
tions there; one has to travel like an army on 
the march and may expect everything except 
repose. Let us go to Switzerland! Too many 
people go there, and most of them are deceived 
as to the nature of its attractions ; but it is there 
are unfolded the three most beautiful colors on 
God’s earth : the azure of the sky, the verdure 
of the plains, and the whiteness of the snows 
on the summits of glaciers. 

“Let us go, let us go,” cried Brigitte, “let 
us fly away like two birds. Let us pretend, 
my dear Octave, that we just met each other 
yesterday. You met me at a ball, I pleased 
you and I love you; you tell me that some 
leagues distant, in a certain little town you 
loved a certain Madam Pierson ; what passed 
between you and her I do not know. You will 
not tell me the story of your love for another! 
And I will whisper to you that not long since 
I loved a terrible fellow who made me very 
unhappy; you will reprove me and close my 
mouth, and we will agree never to speak of 
such things.” 

When Brigitte spoke thus I experienced a 
feeling that resembled avarice ; I caught her 
in my arms and cried : 

“O, God! I know not whether it is with joy 
or with fear that I tremble. I am about to 
carry off my treasure. Die, my youth, die all 


264 


THE CONFESSION OF 


memories of the past, die, all cares and regrets! 
O, my good, brave mistress! You have made 
a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I 
will never love again. Perhaps, before I knew 
you, another woman might have cured me; but 
now you alone, of all the world, I have power 
to destroy me or to save me, for I bear on my 
heart the wound of all th e evil have done 
you. I have been an ingrate, blind and cruel. 
God be praised! You love me still. If you 
ever return to that home under whose lindens 
I first met you, look carefully about that de- 
serted house ; you will find a phantom there, for 
the man who left it, and went away with you, 
is not the man who entered it.” 

“Is it true?” said Brigitte and her head, all 
radiant with love, was raised to heaven ; “is it 
true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odi- 
ous world in which you have grown old before 
your time, yes, my child, you are going to 
love. I will have you such as you are, and, 
wherever we go you will forget the day when 
you will no longer love me. My mission will 
have been accomplished, and I shall always be 
thankful for it.” 

Finally we decided to go to Geneva and then 
choose some resting place in the Alps. Bri- 
gitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought 
I could already breathe the air which floats over 
its surface and the odor of the verdure-clad 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


265 


valley ; already Lausanne, Vevay, Oberland, 
and beyond the summits of Monte Rosa and 
the immense plain of Lombardy ; already, ob- 
livion, repose, flight, all the delights of happy 
solitude invited us ; already, when in the even- 
ing with joined hands, we looked at one another 
in silence, we felt rising within us that senti- 
ment of strange grandeur which takes posses- 
sion of the heart on the eve of a long journey ; 
mysterious and indescribable vertigo which has 
in it something of the terrors of exile and the 
hopes of a pilgrimage. Are there not in the 
human mind wings that flutter and sonorous 
chords that vibrate? How shall I describe it? 
Is there not a world of meaning in the simple 
words: “All is ready, we are about to go?” 

Suddenly Brigitte became languid ; she bowed 
her head and was silent. When I asked her 
if she was in pain, she said no, in a voice that 
was scarcely audible ; when I spoke of our de- 
parture, she arose, cold and resigned, and con- 
tinued her preparations ; when I swore to her 
that she was going to be happy, and that I 
would consecrate my life to her she shut her- 
self up in her room, and wept; when I kissed 
her she turned pale and averted her eyes as 
my lips approached hers ; when I told her that 
nothing had yet been done, that it was not too 
late to renounce our plans, she frowned severely ; 
when I begged her to open her heart to me 


266 


THE CONFESSION OF 


and I told her I would die, rather than cause 
her one regret, she threw her arms about my 
neck, then stopped and repulsed me as though 
involuntarily. Finally I entered her room hold- 
ing in my hand a ticket, on which our places 
were marked for the carriage to Besan^on. I 
approached her and placed it in her lap ; she 
stretched out her hand, screamed and fell un- 
conscious at my feet. 


CHAPTER II 

All my efforts to divine the cause of so unex- 
pected a change were as vain as the questions 
I had first asked. Brigitte was ill and obsti- 
nately remained silent. After an entire day 
passed in supplication and conjecture, I went 
out without knowing where I was going. Pass- 
ing the Opera, I entered it from force of habit. 

I could pay no attention to what was going 
on in the theatre, I was so overwhelmed with 
grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to 
speak, except in myself, and exterior objects 
made no impression on my senses. All my 
powers were centered on a single thought, and 
the more I turned it over in my head, the less 
clearly could I distinguish its meaning. What 
obstacle was this that had so suddenly come 
between us and the realization of our fondest 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


267 


hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event 
or even an actual misfortune, such as an acci- 
dent or loss of some friend, why that obstinate 
silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when 
our dreams seemed about to be realized, what 
could be the nature of a secret that destroyed 
our happiness and could not be confided to me? 
What! she conceals it from me! And yet I 
could not find it in my heart to suspect her. 
The appearance of suspicion revolted me and 
filled me with horror. On the other hand, how 
could I conceive of inconstancy or of caprice 
in that woman such as I knew her? I was 
lost in the abyss of doubt and I could not dis- 
cover a gleam of light, the smallest point on 
which to base conjecture. 

In front of me in the gallery sat a young 
man whose face was not unknown to me. As 
often happens when one is pre-occupied, I 
looked at him without thinking of him as a 
personal identity or trying to fit a name on 
him. Suddenly I recognized him: it was he 

who had brought letters to Brigitte from N . 

I arose and started to accost him without think- 
ing what I was doing. He occupied a place 
that I could not reach without disturbing a 
large number of spectators and I was forced to 
await the entr’acte. 

My first thought was that if anyone could 
enlighten me it was this young man. He had 


268 


THE CONFESSION- OF 


had several interviews with Madam Pierson 
the last few days, and I recalled the fact that 
she was always much depressed after his visits. 
He had seen her the morning of the day she 
was taken ill. The letters he brought Brigitte 
had not been shown me; it was possible that 
he knew the reason why our departure was de- 
layed. Perhaps he did not know all the cir- 
cumstances but he could doubtless enlighten 
me as to the contents of those letters and there 
was no reason why I should hesitate about 
questioning him. When the curtain fell, I fol- 
lowed him to the foyer; I do not know that he 
saw me coming, but he hastened away and en- 
tered a box. I determined to wait until he 
should come out, and stood looking at the box for 
fifteen minutes. At last he appeared. I bowed 
and approached him. He hesitated a moment 
then turned and disappeared down a stairway. 

My desire to speak to him had been too evi- 
dent to admit of any other explanation than 
deliberate intention to avoid me on his part. 
He surely knew my face, and whether he knew 
it or not a man who sees another approaching 
him, ought, . at least, to wait for him. We 
were the only ones in the corridor at the time 
and there could be no doubt he did not wish 
to speak to me. I did not dream of such im- 
pertinent treatment from a man, whom I had 
cordially received at my apartments ;why should 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


269 


he insult me? He could have no other excuse 
than a desire to avoid an awkward interview, 
during which questions might be asked, which 
he did not care to answer. But why? This 
second mystery troubled me almost as much as 
the first. Although I tried to drive the thought 
from my head, that young man’s action in avoid- 
ing me seemed to have some connection with 
Brigitte’s obstinate silence. 

Uncertainty is of all torments the most diffi 
cult to endure, and during my life I have ex- 
posed myself to many dangers because I could 
not wait patiently. When I returned to my 
apartments I found Brigitte reading those same 

fateful letters from N . I told her that I 

could not remain longer in suspense, and that 
I wished to be relieved from it at any cost ; 
that I desired to know the cause of the sudden 
change which had taken place in her, and that, 
if she refused to speak, I would look upon her 
silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with 
me and an order for me to leave her forever. 

She reluctantly handed me the letters she 
was reading. Her relatives had written her, 
that her departure had disgraced them, that 
every one knew the circumstances, and that 
they felt it their duty to warn her of the con- 
sequences; that she was living openly as my 
mistress, and that, although she was a widow 
and free to do as she chose, she ought to think 


270 


THE CONFESSION OF 


of the name she bore ; that neither they nor 
her old friends would ever see her again if 
she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts 
of threats and entreaties, they urged her to re- 
turn. 

.The tone of that letter angered me, and at 
first I took it as an insult. 

“And that young man who brings you these 
remonstrances,” I cried, "doubtless has orders 
to deliver them personally, and does not fail 
to do his own part to the best of his ability. 
Am I not right?” 

Brigitte’s dejection made me reflect and calm 
my wrath. 

"You will do as you wish, and achieve my 
ruin,” she said. “My fate rests with you, you 
have been for a long time my master. Avenge 
as you please the last effort my old friends have 
made to recall me to reason, to the world that I 
formerly respected, to the honor that I have 
lost. I have not a word to say and if you wish 
to dictate my reply, I will obey you.” 

"I care to know nothing,” I replied, “but 
your intentions; it is for me to comply with 
your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to 
do it. Tell me, do you desire to remain, to go 
away, or shall I go alone?” 

"Why that question?” asked Brigitte; "have 
I said that I had changed my mind? I am 
unwell and can not travel in my present con- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


271 


dition, but when I. recover we will go to Ge- 
neva as we have planned." 

We separated at these words, and the cold- 
ness with which she had expressed her resolu- 
tion saddened me more than a refusal. It was 
not the first time our liaison had been threatened 
by her relatives; but up to this time whatever 
letters Brigitte had received she had never taken 
so much to heart. How could I bring myself 
to believe that Brigitte had been so affected by 
protests which in less happy moments had had 
' no effect on her? Could it be merely the weak- 
ness of a woman who recoils from an act of 
final significance? I will do as you please, she 
- had said. No, it does not please me to demand 
patience, and rather than look at that sorrow- 
ful face even a week longer, unless she speaks 
I will set out alone. 

Fool that I was! Had I the strength to do 
it? I did not close my eyes that night and the 
next morning I resolved to call on that young 
man I had seen at the opera. I do not know 
whether it was wrath or curiosity that impelled 
me to this course, nor did I know just what I 
desired to learn of him ; but I reflected that 
he could not avoid me this time, and that was 
all I wanted. 

As I did not know his address I asked Brigitte 
for it, pretending that I felt under obligations 
to call on him after all the visits he had made 


272 


THE CONFESSION OF 


us; I had not said a word about my experience 
at the opera. Brigitte’s eyes betrayed signs 
of tears. When I entered her room she held 
out her hand, and said : 

“What do you wish?” 

Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged 
a few kind words and I set out less unhappy. 

The name of the young man I was going to 
see was Smith ; he was living near by. When 
I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange 
sensation of uneasiness ; I was dazed as though 
by a sudden flash of light. His first gesture 
froze my blood. He was in bed and with the 
same accent Brigitte had employed, with a face 
as pale and haggard as hers, he held out his 
hand and said: 

“What do you wish?” 

Say what you please there are things in a 
man’s life which the reason can not explain. I 
sat still as though awakened from a dream and 
began to repeat his questions. Why, in fact, 
had I come to see him? How could I tell him 
what had brought me there? Even if he had 
anything to tell me how did I know he would 

speak? He had brought letters from N , 

and knew those who had written them. But it 
cost me an effort to question him, and I feared 
he would suspect what was in my mind. Our 
first words were polite and insignificant. I 
thanked him for his kindness in bringing let- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


273 


ters to Madam Pierson ; I told him that upon 
leaving France, we would ask him to do the 
same favor for us ; and then we were silent, 
surprised to find ourselves vis-a-vis. 

I looked about me in embarrassment. His 
room was on the fourth floor ; everything indi- 
cated honest and industrious poverty. Some 
books, musical instruments, papers, a table and a 
few chairs, that was all, but everything was well 
cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble. 

As for him, his frank and animated face pre- 
disposed me in his favor. On the mantel I 
observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped 
up to look at it, and he said it was his mother. 

I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken 
of him; she had known him since childhood. 
Before I came to the country she used to see 

him occasionally at N but at the time of 

her last visit there he was away. It was, there- 
fore, only by chance that I had learned some 
particulars of his life, which now came to mind. 
He had an honest employment that enabled 
him to support his sister and mother. 

His treatment of these two women deserved 
the highest praise ; he deprived himself of 
everything for them, and although he possessed 
musical talents that would have enabled him to 
make a fortune, the immediate needs of those de- 
pendent on him, and an extreme reserve had al- 
ways led him to prefer an assured income to the 

18 


274 


THE CONFESSION OF 


uncertain chances of success in larger ventures. 
In a word he belonged to that small class who 
live quietly, and who are worth more to the 
world than those who do not appreciate them. 
I had learned of certain traits in his character 
which will serve to paint the man : he had fallen 
in love with a beautiful girl in the neighbor- 
hood, and, after a year of devotion to her, se- 
cured her parent’s consent to their union. She 
was as poor as he. The contract was ready to 
be signed, the preparations for the wedding 
complete, when his mother said: 

“And your sister? Who will marry her?” 

That simple remark made him understand 
that if he married he would spend all his money 
in the household expenses and his sister would 
have no dowry. He broke off the engagement, 
bravely renouncing his happy prospect’s, he 
then came to Paris. 

When I heard that story I wanted to see the 
hero. That simple, unassuming act of devotion 
seemed to me more admirable than all the glo- 
ries of war. 

The more I examined that young man, the 
less I felt inclined to broach the subject near- 
est my heart. The idea which had first occurred 
to me that he would harm me in Brigitte’s 
eyes, vanished at once. Gradually my thoughts 
took another course; I looked at him atten- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


275 


tively and it seemed to me that he was also 
examining me with curiosity. 

We were both twenty-one years of age, but 
what a difference between us! He accustomed 
to an existence regulated by the graduated tick 
of the clock ; never having seen anything of 
life, except that part of it which lies between 
an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy 
government office; sending his mother all his 
savings, that farthing of human joy which 
the hand of toil clasps so greedily; hav- 
ing no thought except for the happiness of 
others, and that since his childhood, since he 
had been a babe in arms! And I, during that 
precious time, so swift, so inexorable, during 
that time that with him was bathed in sweat, 
what had I done? Was I a man? Which of 
us had lived? 

What I have said in a page can be compre- 
hended in a glance. He spoke to me of our 
journey and the countries we were going to 
visit. 

"When do you go?" he asked. 

'‘I do not know; Madam Pierson is unwell 
and has been confined to her bed for three 
days. " 

"For three days!" he repeated in surprise. 

"Yes; why are you astonished.” 

He arose and threw himself on me, his arms 


276 


THE CONFESSION OF 


extended, his eyes fixed. He was trembling 
violently. 

“Are you ill?” I asked, taking him by the 
hand. He pressed his hand to his head and 
burst into tears. When he had recovered suffi- 
ciently to speak, he said : 

“Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. 
I fear I am not well ; when I have sufficiently 
recovered I will return your visit.” 


CHAPTER III 

Brigitte was better. She had told me that 
she desired to go away as soon as she was well 
enough to travel. But I insisted that she 
ought to rest at least fifteen days before under- 
taking a long journey. 

Whenever I attempted to persuade her to 
speak frankly, she assured me that the letter 
was the only cause of her melancholy and 
begged me to say nothing more about it. Then 
I tried in vain to guess what was passing in 
her heart. We went to the theatre every night 
in order to avoid embarrassing tete-a-t£tes. 
There we sometimes pressed each other’s hands 
at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain 
of music or exchanged, perhaps, a friendly 
glance, but going and returning we were mute, 
absorbed in our thoughts. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


277 


Smith came almost every day. Although his 
presence in the house had been the cause of all 
my sorrow, and although my visit to him had 
left singular suspicions in my mind, still his 
apparent good faith and his simplicity reassured 
me. I had spoken to him of the letters he 
had brought, and he did not appear offended, 
but saddened. He was ignorant of the con- 
tents and his friendship for Brigitte led him 
to censure them severely. He would have re- 
fused to carry them, he said, if he knew what 
they contained. On account of Brigitte’s tone 
of reserve in his presence, I did not think he 
was in her confidence. I therefore welcomed 
him with pleasure, although there was always 
a sort of awkward embarrassment in our meet- 
ing. He was asked to act as intermediary be- 
tween Brigitte and her relatives after our de- 
parture. When we three were together he 
noticed a certain coldness and restraint which 
he endeavored to banish by cheerful good- 
humor. If he spoke of our liaison it was with 
respect and as a man who looks upon love as a 
sacred bond ; in fact he was a kind friend, 
and he inspired me with full confidence. 

But despite all that, despite all his efforts, 
he was sad, and I could not get rid of strange 
thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I 
had seen that young man shed, his illness com- 
ing on at the same time as Brigitte’s, I know 


278 


THE CONFESSION OF 


not what melancholy sympathy I thought I 
discovered between them, troubled and dis- 
quieted me. Not over a month ago I would 
have become violently jealous; but now, of 
what could I suspect Brigitte? Whatever the 
secret she was concealing from me, was she not 
going away with me? Even if it were possible 
that Smith could be in some secret of which I 
knew nothing, what could be the nature of that 
mystery? What was there to be censured in 
their sadness and in their friendship? She had 
known him as a child ; she met him again after 
long years just as she was about to leave France; 
she chanced to be in an unfortunate situation, 
and fate decreed that he should be the instru- 
ment of adding to her sorrow. Was it not 
natural that they should exchange sorrowful 
glances, that the sight of this young man should 
awaken memories and regrets? Could he on 
the other hand, see her start off on a long jour- 
ney, proscribed and almost abandoned, without 
grave apprehensions? I felt that that must be 
the explanation and that it was my duty to as- 
sure them that I was capable of protecting the 
one from all dangers, and of requiting the other 
for the services he had rendered. And yet a 
deadly sense of coldness oppressed me and 7 
could not determine what course to pursue. 

When Smi«th left us in the evening, we either 
kept silence or talked of him. I do not know 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


279 


what fatal attraction led me to ask about him 
continually. She, however, told me just what 
I have told the reader ; his life had never been 
other than it was at this time, poor, obscure 
and honest. I made her repeat the story of his 
life a number of times, without knowing why I 
took such an interest in it. 

There was in my heart a secret cause of sor- 
row which I would not confess. If that young 
man haa arrived at the time of our greatest 
happiness, had he brought an insignificant let- 
ter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand while 
assisting her into the carriage, would I have 
paid the least attention to it? Had he recog- 
nized me at the opera or had he not r had he 
shed tears for some unknown reason, what 
would it matter so long as I was happy? But 
while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte’s 
sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever 
she might say of it, had something to do with 
her present state. If I had been what I ought 
to have been for the last six months that we 
had lived together, nothing in the world, I was 
persuaded, could have troubled our love. Smith 
was only an ordinary man, but he was good 
and devoted, his simple and modest qualities 
resembled the large, pure lines which the eye 
seizes at the first glance ; one became acquainted 
with him in a quarter of an hour, and he in- 
spired confidence if not admiration. I could 


28 o 


THE CONFESSION OF 


not help thinking that if he were Brigitte’s 
lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the 
ends of the earth. 

I had deferred our departure purposely, but 
now I began to regret it. Brigitte, too, at 
times urged me to hasten the day. 

"Why do we wait?” she asked. “Here I am 
recovered and everything is ready.” 

Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know. 

Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from 
Smith to my misterss. I saw that they were 
both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why 
they were thus, and I could not help repeating 
that there was but one cause, but one secret to 
learn ; but that was not one of those vague, 
sickly suspicions, such as had formerly tor- 
mented me but an instinct, persistent and fatal. 
What strange creatures we! It pleased me to 
leave them alone before the fire and to go out 
on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet 
and looking at the water. When they spoke 

of their life at N , and when Brigitte, almost 

cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall some 
incident of their childhood days, it seemed to 
me that I suffered, and yet took pleasure in it. 
I asked questions ; I spoke to Smith of his 
mother, of his plans and his prospects. I gave 
him an opportunity to show himself in a favor- 
able light and forced his modesty to reveal his 
merit. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


281 


“You love your sister very much, do you 
not?” I asked. "When do you expect to marry 
her off?” 

He blushed and replied that his expenses 
were rather heavy and that it would probably 
be within two years, perhaps sooner if his health 
would permit him to do some extra work which 
would bring in enough to provide her dowry; 
that there, as a family in the country, whose 
eldest son was her friend ; that they were almost 
agreed on it, and that fortune would one day 
come, like rest, without thinking of it ; that he 
had set aside for his sister a part of the money 
left by their father; that their mother was op- 
posed to it but that he would insist on it; that 
a young man may live from hand to mouth, 
but that the fate of a young girl is fixed on the 
day of her marriage. Thus, little by little, he 
expressed what was in his heart, and I watched 
Brigitte listening to him. Then when he arose 
to leave us I accompanied him to the door and 
stood there, pensively listening to the sound of 
his footsteps on the stairs. 

Upon examining our trunks we found that 
there were still a few things needed before we 
could start ; Smith was asked to purchase them. 
He was remarkably active and enjoyed attend- 
ing to matters of this kind. When I returned 
to my apartments, I found him on the floor, 
strapping a trunk. Brigitte was at the piano 


282 


THE CONFESSION OF 


we had rented by the week during our stay. 
She was playing one of those old airs into which 
she put so much expression and which were so 
dear to us. I stopped in the hall ; every note 
reached my ear distinctly; never had she sung 
so sadly, so divinely. 

Smith was listening with pleasure ; he was 
on his knees holding the buckle of the strap 
in his hands. He fastened it, then looked 
about the room at the other goods he had 
packed and covered with a linen cloth. Satis- 
fied with his work, he still remained kneeling 
in the same spot ; Brigitte, her hands on the 
keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the 
second time I saw tears fall from the young 
man’s eyes ; I was ready to shed tears myself, 
and not knowing what was passing in me, I 
held out my hand to him. 

"Were you there?” asked Brigitte. She trem- 
bled and seemed surprised. 

"Yes, I was there,” I replied. “Sing, my dear, 
I beg of } 7 ou Let me hear your sweet voice.” 

She continued her song without a word : she 
noticed my emotion as well as Smith’s; her 
voice faltered. With the last notes she arose 
and came to me and kissed me. 

On another occasion I had bought an album 
containing views of Switzerland. We were 
looking at them, all three of us, and when Bri- 
gitte found a site that pleased her, she would 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 283 

stop to examine it. There was one view that 
seemed to please her more than all the others ; 
it was a certain spot in the canton of Vaud, 
some distance from Brigues; some trees with 
cows grazing in the shade ; in the distance a 
village consisting of some dozen houses, scat- 
tered here and there. In the foreground a young 
girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, 
and a farmer’s boy standing before her, apparent- 
ly pointing out, with his iron-tipped stick, the 
route over which he had come; he was directing 
her attention to a winding path that led to the 
mountain. Above them were the Alps, and the 
picture was crowned by three snow-capped sum- 
mits. Nothing could be more simple or more 
beautiful than this landscape. The valley re- 
sembled a lake of verdure and the eye followed 
its contour with delight. 

"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I 
took a pencil and traced some figures on the 
picture 

“What are you doing?" she asked. 

“I am trying to see if I can not change that 
face slightly and make it resemble yours. The 
pretty hat would become you and can I not, if 
I am skilful, give that fine mountaineer some 
resemblance to me?" 

The whim seemed to please her and she set 
about rubbing out the two faces. When I had 
painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. 


284 


THE CONFESSION OF 


The faces were very small, hence not very 
difficult; it was agreed that the likenesses were 
striking. While we were laughing at it, the 
door opened and I was called away by the serv- 
ant. 

When I returned, Smith was leaning on the 
table and looking at the picture with interest. 
He was absorbed in a profound revery and was 
not aware of my presence; I sat down near the 
fire and it was not until I spoke to Brigitte that 
he raised his head. He looked at us a mo- 
ment, then hastily took his leave and as he 
approached the door, I saw him strike his fore- 
head with his hand. 

When I discovered these signs of grief, I 
said to myself: “What does it mean?” Then 
I clasped my hands to plead with — whom? I 
do not know ; perhaps my good angel, perhaps 
my evil destiny. 


CHAPTER IV 

My heart yearned to set out and yet I de- 
layed ; some secret influence rooted me to the 
spot. 

When Smith came I knew no repose from 
the time he entered the room. How is it that 
we somteimesseem to enjoy unhappiness? 

One day a word, a flush, a glance, made 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


285 


me shudder; another day, another glance, an 
other word, threw me into uncertainty. Why 
are they both so sad? Why am I as motion- 
less as a statue where I had formerly been vio- 
lent? Every evening I sat on my bed and said 
to myself: “Let me see; let me think that 
over.” Then I sprang to my feet crying : “Im- 
possible!” The next day I did the same thing. 

In Smith’s presence, Brigitte treated me 
with more tenderness than when we were alone. 
It happened one evening that some hard words 
escaped us ; when she heard his voice in the 
hall she came and sat on my knees. As for 
him it seemed to me he was always making an 
effort to control himself. His gestures were 
carefully regulated ; he spoke slowly and pru- 
dently, so that his occasional moments of for- 
getfulness seemed all the more striking. 

Was it curiosity that tormented me? I re- 
member that one day I saw a man drowning 
near Pont Royale. It was mid-summer and we 
were rowing on the river ; some thirty boats 
were crowded together under the bridge when 
suddenly one of the occupants of a boat near 
mine threw up his hands and fell overboard. 
We immediately began diving for him, but in 
vain ; some hours later the body was found 
under a raft. 

I shall never forget my experience as I was 
diving for that man. I opened my eyes under the 


286 


THE CONFESSION OF 


water and searched painfully here and there in 
the dark corners about the pier ; then I re- 
turned to the surface for breath, then resumed 
my horrible search. I *was filled with “hope 
and terror ; the thought that I might feel my- 
self seized by convulsive arms, allured me and 
at the same time thrilled me with horror ; when 
I was exhausted with fatigue, I climbed back 
into my boat. 

Unless a man is brutalized by debauchery, 
eager curiosity is one of his marked traits. 

I have already remarked that I felt it on the 
occasion of my first visit to Desgenais. I will 
explain my meaning. 

The truth, that skeleton of appearances, or 
dains that every man, whatsoever he be, shall 
come, in his day and hour, to touch the bones 
that lie forever at the bottom of some chance 
experience. It is called knowing the world and 
experience is purchased at that price. It 
happens that some recoil in terror before that 
test, others, feeble and affrighted, vacillate like 
shadows. Some, the best perhaps, die at 
once. The large number forget, and thus all 
float on to death. 

But there are some men, who, at the fell 
stroke of misfortune, neither die nor forget; 
when it comes their turn to touch misfortune, 
otherwise called truth, they approach it with- 
a firm step, and out-stretched hand, and horri- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 287 

ble to say! they mistake love for the livid 
corpse they have found at the bottom of the 
river. They seize it, feel it, clasp it in their 
arms ; behold them drunk with the desire to 
know; they no longer look with interest upon 
things, except to see them pass; they do noth- 
ing except doubt and test ; they ransack the 
world as though they were God’s spies; they 
sharpen their thoughts into arrows, and they 
give birth to a monster. 

The debauchees, more than all others, are ex- 
posed to that fury, and the reason is very sim- 
ple : ordinary life is, the limpid surface, the de- 
bauchees’ the rapid current turning over and over 
and at times touching the bottom. Coming 
from a ball, for instance, where they have 
danced with a modest girl they seek the com- 
pany of bad characters, and spend the night 
in riotous feasting. The last words they ad- 
dressed to a beautiful and virtuous woman are 
still on their lips ; they repeat them and burst 
into laughter. Shall I say it? Do they not 
raise, for some pieces of silver, the vesture of 
chastity, that robe so full of mystery, that 
seems to respect the being it embellishes and 
surrounds without touching? What idea can 
they have of the world? They are like come- 
dians in the green room. Who, more than they, 
is skilled in that research at the bottom of 
things, in that groping, profound and impious? 


288 


THE CONFESSION OF 


See how they speak of everything; always in 
terms the most barren, the most crude and ab- 
ject; such words appear true to them; all the 
rest is only parade, convention, prejudice. Let 
them tell a story, let them recount some experi- 
ence they will always use the same dirty and 
material expression, always the letter, always 
death! They do not say "That woman loved 
me ;” they say: "I have possessed that woman ;" 
they do not say: "I love;” they say : "I desire,” 
they never say: "If God wills;” they say: "If 
I will." I do not know what they think of 
themselves and such monologues as these. 

Hence, of a necessity, either idleness or curi- 
osity ; for while they strive to find what there 
is of evil, they do not understand that others 
still believe in the good. Therefore, they are 
either so nonchalant that they stop their ears, 
or the no;se of the rest of the world suddenly 
startles them from sleep. The father allows 
his son to go where so many others go, where 
Cato himself went; he says that youth is but a 
stage. But when he returns, the youth looks 
upon his sister; and see what has taken place 
in him during an hour passed in the society of 
brutal reality! He says to himself: "My sis- 
ter is not like that creature I have just left!” 
And from that day he is disturbed and uneasy. 

Sinful curiosity is a vile malady born of 
all impure contact. It is the prowling in- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 289 

stinct of phantoms who raise the lids of tombs ; 
it is an inexplicable torture with which God 
punishes those who have sinned ; they wish to 
believe that all sin as they have done and would 
be disappointed perhaps to find that it was not 
so. But they inquire, they search, they dispute ; 
they hang their heads on one side as does an 
architect who adjusts a pillar, and thus strive 
to find what they desire to find. Given proof 
of evil, they laugh at it ; doubtful of evil, they 
swear that it exists; the good they refuse to 
recognize. “Who knows?” Behold the grand for 
mula, the first words that Satan spoke when he 
saw heaven closing against him. A \las! how 
many evils are those words responsible for! 
How many disasters and deaths, how many 
strokes of terrible scythes in the ripening har- 
vest of humanity! How many hearts, how many 
families where there is naught but ruin, since 
that word was first heard ! “Who knows! Who 
knows!” Loathesome words! Rather than pro- 
nounce them one should do as the sheep who 
graze about the slaughter-house and know it 
not. That is better than to be a strong spirit 
and read la Rochefoucald. 

What better illustration could I present than 
the one I have just given? My mistress was 
ready to set out and I had but to say the word. 
Why did I delay? What would have been the 

result if I had started at once on our trip? 

. i? 


290 


THE CONFESSION OF 


Nothing but a moment of apprehension that 
would have been forgotten after traveling three 
days. When with me, she had no thought but 
of me ; why should I care to solve a mystery 
that did not threaten my happiness? 

She would have consented and that would 
have been the end of it. A kiss on her lips 
and all would be well ; instead of that, see 
what I did. 

One evening when Smith had dined with us, 
I retired at an early hour and left them to- 
gether. As I closed my door I heard Brigitte 
order some tea. In the morning I happened 
to approach her table, and, sitting beside the 
tea-pot, I saw but one cup. No one had been 
in that room before me that morning, so the 
servant could not have carried away anything 
that had been used the night before. I searched 
everywhere for a second cup but could find 
none. 

“Did Smith stay late?” I asked of Brigitte. 

“He left about mid-night.” 

“Did you retire alone or did you call some 
one to assist you?” 

“I retired alone; everyone in the house was 
asleep. ” 

I continued my search and my hands trem- 
bled. In what burlesque comedy is there a 
jealous lover, so stupid as to inquire what has 
become of a cup? Why seek to discover whether 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


291 


Smith and Madam Pierson had drunk from the 
same cup? What a brilliant idea that! 

Nevertheless I found the cup and I burst into 
laughter and threw it on the floor with such 
violence that it broke into a thousand pieces. 
I ground the pieces under my feet. 

Brigitte looked at me without saying a word. 
During the two succeeding days she treated 
me with a coldness that had something of con- 
tempt in it, and I saw that she treated Smith 
with more deference and kindness than usual. 
She called him Henry and smiled on him sweet- 

ly- 

“I feel that the air would do me good,” she 
said after dinner; "shall we go to the opera, 
Octave? I would enjoy walking that far.” 

"No, I will stay here; go without me.” She 
took Smith's arm and went out. I remained 
alone all evening ; I had paper before me and 
I was trying to collect my thoughts in order 
to write, but in vain. 

As a lonely lover draws from his bosom a 
letter from his mistress, and loses himself in 
delightful revery, thus I shut myself up in sol- 
itude and yielded to the sweet allurement of 
doubt. Before me were the two empty seats 
which Brigitte and Smith had just occupied ; 
I scrutinized them eagerly as though they 
could tell me something. 1 revolved in my 
mind all the things I had heard and seen ; from 


292 


THE CONFESSION OF 


time to time I went to the door and cast my 
eyes over our trunks which had been piled 
against the wall for a month ; I opened them 
and examined the contents so carefully packed 
away by those delicate little hands; I listened 
to the sound of passing carriages ; the slightest 
noise made me tremble. I spread out on the 
taole our map of Europe, and there in the very 
presence of all my hopes, in that room where I 
had conceived and had so nearly realized them, 
I abandoned myself to the most frightful pre- 
sentiments. 

But strange as it may seem I felt neither 
anger nor jealousy, but a terrible sense of sor- 
row and foreboding. I did not suspect, and 
yet, I doubted. The mind of man is so strangely 
formed that, with what he sees, and in spite of 
what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred ob- 
jects of woe. In truth his brain resembles the 
dungeons of the Inquisition whose walls are 
covered with so many instruments of torture, 
that one is dazed and asks whether these hor- 
rible contrivances he sees before him are pin- 
cers or playthings. Tell me, I say, what dif- 
ference there is in saying to my mistress: “All 
women deceive,” or, “You deceive nie?” 

What passed through my mind was perhaps as 
subtle as the finest sophistry ; it was a sort of 
dialogue between the mind and the conscience. 
“If I should lose Brigitte?” I said to the mind. — 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


293 


“She departs with you, ’’said the conscience — “If 
she deceives me?” — “How can she deceive you? 
Has she not made out her will asking for prayers 
for you?” — “If Smith loves her?” — “Fool! What 
does it matter so long as you know that she 
loves you?” — “If she loves me why is she sad?” 
— “That is her secret, respect it.” — “If I take 
her away with me, will she be happy?” — “Love 
her and she will be." — “Why, when that man 
looks at her, does she seem to fear to meet his 
glance?" — “Because she is a woman and he is 
young.” — “Why does that young man turn pale 
when she looks at him?” — “Because he is a 
man and she is beautiful." — “Why when I went 
to see him did he throw himself into my arms, 
and why did he weep and beat his head with 
his hands?” — “Do not seek to know what you 
must remain ignorant of.” — “Why can I not 
know these things?” — “Because you are miser- 
able and weak, and all mystery is of God.” — 
“But why is it that I suffer? Why is it that 
my soul recoils in terror?” — “Think of your 
father and do good." — “But why am I unable 
to do as he did? Why does evil attract me to 
itself?”' — “Get down on your knees and confess; 
if you believe in evil it is because your ways 
have been evil.” — “If my wavs were evil, was 
it my fault? Why did the good betray me?” — 
“Because you are in the shadow, would you deny 
the existence of light? If there are traitors 


2Q4 


THE CONFESSION OF 


why are you one of them?” — "Because I am 
afraid of becoming the dupe.” — "Why do you 
spend your nights in watching? Why are you 
alone now?” — "Because I think, I doubt and I 
fear.” — "When will you offer your prayer?” — 
“When I believe. Why have they lied to me?” 
— "Why do you lie, coward! at this very mo- 
ment! Why not die if you can not suffer?” 

Thus spoke and groaned within me two 
voices, voices that were defiant and terrible ; 
and then a third voice cried out! “Alas! Alas! 
my innocence! Alas! Alas ! the days that were !” 


CHAPTER V 

What a frightful lever the human thought! 
It is our defense and our safe-guard, the most 
beautiful present that God has made us. It is 
ours and it obeys us ; we may shoot it forth 
into space, and, once outside of this feeble 
head, it is gone, we can no longer control it. 

While I was deferring the time of our de- 
parture from day to day I was gradually losing 
strength, and, although I did not perceive it, 
my vital forces were slowly wasting away. When 
I sat at table I experienced a violent distaste 
for food; at night two pale faces, that of Bri- 
gitte and of Smith, pursued me through fright- 
ful dreams. When they went to the theatre in 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


295 


the evening I refused to go with them; theft I 
went alone and concealed myself in the parquet 
and watched them. I pretended that I had 
some business to attend to in a neighboring room 
and I sat there an hour and listened to them. 
The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrel with 
Smith and force him to fight with me ; I turned 
my back on him while he was talking; then he 
came to me with a look of surprise on his face, 
holding out his hand. When I was alone in 
the night and everyone slept, I felt a strong 
desire to go to Brigitte’s desk and take from it 
her papers. On one occasion I was obliged to 
go out of the house in order to resist the temp- 
tation. One day I felt like arming myself with 
a knife and threatening to kill them if they 
did not tell me why they were so sad ; another 
day I turned all this fury against myself. With 
what shame do I write it! And if any one should 
ask me why I acted thus, I could not reply. 

To see, to doubt, to search, to torture my- 
self and make myself miserable, to pass entire 
days with my ear at the key-hole, and the night 
in a flood of tears, to repeat over and over that 
I would die of sorrow, to feel isolation and fee- 
bleness uprooting hope in my heart, to imagine 
that I was spying when I was only listening 
to the feverish beating of my own pulse ; to con 
over stupid phrases, such as: “Life is a dream, 
there is nothing stable here below;" to curse 


296 


THE CONFESSION OF 


and blaspheme God through misery and through 
caprice : that was my joy, the precious occupa- 
tion for which I renounced love, the air of 
heaven, and liberty! 

Eternal God, liberty ! Yes, there were cer- 
tain moments when, in spite of all, I still 
thought of it. In the midst of my madness, 
eccentricity, and stupidity, there were within 
me certain impulses that at times brought me 
to myself. It was a breath of air which struck 
my face as I came from my dungeon ; it was a 
page of a book I read when, in my bitter days, 
I happened to read something besides those 
modern sychophants called pamphleteers, and 
who, out of regard for the public health, ought 
to be prevented from indulging in their crude 
philosophizing. Since I have referred to these 
good moments, let me mention one of them, 
they were so rare. One evening I was read- 
ing the Memoirs of Constant; I came to the 
following lines : 

“Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince 
Christian, had his leg broken by a shell in the 
battle of Wagram. He lay almost lifeless on 
the dusty held. Fifteen paces distant, Amed£e 
of Kerbourg, aide-de-camp (I have forgotten 
of whom), wounded in the breast by a bullet, 
falls to the ground vomiting blood. Salsdorf 
sees that if that young man is not cared for he 
will die of apoplexy; summoning all his powers, 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


297 


he painfully drags himself to the side of the 
wounded man, bleeds him and saves his life. 
Salsdorf himself died four days later from the 
effects of amputation.” 

When I read these words I threw down my 
book, and melted into tears. 

I do not regret those tears for they were such 
as I could shed only when my heart was right ; 
I do not speak merely of Salsdorf, and do not 
care for that particular instance. I am sure, 
however, that I did not suspect anyone that 
day. Poor dreamer ! Ought I to remember 
that I have been other than I am? What good 
will it do me as I stretch out my arms in an- 
guish to heaven and wait for the shell that 
will deliver me forever. Alas! that was only a 
gleam that flashed across the night of my life. 

Like those dervish fanatics who find ecstasy 
in vertigo when thought, turning on itself, ex- 
hausted by the stress of introspection, tired of 
vain effort, recoils in fright ; thus it would seem 
that man must be a void and that by dint of 
delving within himself he reaches the last turn 
of a spiral. There, as on the summits of moun- 
tains and at the bottom of mines, air fails and 
God forbids man to go farther. Then, struck 
with a mortal chill, the heart, as though im- 
paired by oblivion, seeks to escape into a new 
birth ; it demands life of that which environs 
it, it eagerly drinks in the air; but it finds 


298 


THE CONFESSION OF 


round about only its own chimeras which have 
just animated its failing powers and which, 
selfcreated, surround it like pitiless spec- 
tres. 

This can not last long. Tired of uncertainty, 
1 resolved to resort to a test that would dis- 
cover the truth. 

I ordered post horses for ten in the evening. 
We had hired a calash and I gave direction that 
all should be ready at the hour indicated. At 
the same time I asked that nothing be said to 
Madam Pierson. Smith came to dinner; at 
the table I affected unusual cheerfulness, and 
without a word about my plans, I turned the 
conversation to our journey. I would renounce 
all idea of going away, I said, if I thought 
Brigitte did not care to go ; I was so well sat- 
isfied with Paris that I asked nothing better 
than to remain as long as she pleased. I made 
much of all the pleasures of the city; I spoke 
of the balls, the theatres, of the many oppor- 
tunities for diversion on every hand. In short, 
since we were happy I did not see why we 
should make a change ; and I did not think of 
going away at present. 

I was expecting her to insist that we carry 
out our plan of going to Geneva, and was not 
disappointed. However, she insisted but feebly ; 
but, after a few words, I pretended to yield, and 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


299 


then changing the subject I spoke of other 
things, as though it was all settled. 

"And why will not Smith go with us?” I asked. 
"It is very true that he has duties here, but can 
he not obtain leave of absence? Moreover, will 
not the talents he possesses and which he is un- 
willing to use, assure him an honorable living 
anywhere? Let him come along with us; the 
carriage is large and we offer him a place in it. 
A young man should see the world and there 
is nothing so irksome for a man of his age as 
confinement in an office and restriction to a 
narrow circle. Is it not true?” I asked, turning to 
Brigitte. "Come, my dear, let your credit obtain 
from him what he might refuse me ; urge him 
to give us six weeks of his time. We will 
travel together and after a tour of Switzerland 
he will return to his duties with new life.” 

Brigitte joined her entreaties to mine al- 
though she knew it was only a joke on my part. 
Smith could not leave Paris without danger of 
losing his position and replied that he regretted 
being obliged to deny himself the pleasure of 
accompanying us. Nevertheless I continued 
to press him, and, ordering another bottle of 
wine, I repeated my invitation. After dinner 
I went out to assure myself that my orders were 
carried out ; then I returned in high spirits, 
and seating myself at the piano I proposed 


some music. 


300 


THE CONFESSION OF 


“Let us pass the evening here,” I said; “be- 
lieve me it is better than going to the theatre ; 
I can not take part myself, but I can listen. 
We will make Smith play if he tires of our com- 
pany and the time will pass pleasantly.” 

Brigitte consented with good grace and be- 
gan tossing for us; Smith accompanied her on 
the violincello. The materials for a bowl of 
punch were brought and the flame of burning 
rum soon cheefed us with its light. The piano 
was abandoned for the table ; then we had 
cards ; everything passed off as I wished and 
we succeeded in diverting ourselves to my 
heart’s content. 

I had my eyes fixed on the clock and waited 
impatiently for the hands to mark the hour of 
ten. I was tormented with anxiety but allowed 
them to see nothing. Finally the hour arrived ; 
I heard the postilion’s whip as the horses entered 
the court. Brigitte was seated near me ; I took 
her by the hand and asked her if she was ready 
to depart. She looked at me with surprise, 
doubtless wondering if I was not joking. I told 
her that at dinner she had appeared so anxious 
to go that I had felt justified in sending for 
the horses and that I went out for that purpose 
when I left the table. 

“Are you serious?” asked Brigitte; “do you 
wish to set out to-night?” 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


301 


“Why not?” I replied, "since we have agreed 
that we ought to leave Paris?” 

“What! now? At this very moment?” 

"Certainly; have we not been ready for a 
month? You see there is nothing to do but 
load our trunks on the calash ; as we have de- 
cided to go, ought we not go at once? I be- 
lieve it is better to go now and put off nothing 
until to-morrow. You are in the humor to 
travel to-night and I hasten to profit by it. 
Why wait longer and continue to put it off? I 
can not endure this life. You wish to go, do 
you not? Very well, let us go and be done with 
it.” 

Profound silence ensued. Brigitte stepped 
to the window and satisfied herself that the 
calash was there. Moreover, the tone in which 
I spoke would admit of no doubt, and, how- 
ever hasty my action may appear to her, it 
was due to her own expressed desire. She 
could not deny her own words, nor find any 
pretext for further delay. Her decision was 
made promptly; she asked a few questions as 
though to assure herself that all the prepara- 
tions had been made, seeing that nothing had 
been omitted, she began to search here and 
there. She found her hat and shawl, then con- 
tinued her search. 

"I am ready,” she said; "shall we go? We 
are really going?” 


302 


THE CONFESSION OF 


She took a light, went to my room, to her 
own, opened lockers and closets. She asked 
for the key to her secretary which she said she 
had lost. Where could that key be? She had 
it in her possession not an hour ago. 

“Come, come! I am ready,” she repeated in 
extreme agitation; “let us go Octave, let us set 
out at once.” 

While speaking she continued her search and 
then came and sat down near us. 

1 was- seated on the sofa watching Smith, 
who stood before me. He had not changed 
countenance and seemed neither troubled nor 
surprised; but two drops of sweat trickle down 
his forehead, and I heard an ivory counter 
crackle between his fingers, the pieces falling 
to the floor. He held out both hands to us. 

“ Bon voyage , my friends!" he said. 

Again silence; I was still watching him, 
waiting for him to add a word. “If there is 
some secret here," thought I, “when shall I 
learn it, if not now? It must be on the lips 
of both of them. Let it but come out into the 
light and I will seize it. " 

"My dear Octave,” said Brigitte, “where are 
we to stop? You will write to us, Henry, will 
you not? You will not forget my relatives 
and will do what you can for me?” He replied 
in a voice that trembled slightly that he would 
do all in his power to serve her. • 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


303 


“I can answer for nothing,” he said, “and, 
judging from the letters you have received, there 
is not much hope. But it will not be my fault 
if I do not soon send you good news. Count 
on me, I am devoted to you. ” 

After a few more kind words he made ready 
to take his departure. I arose and left the 
room before him ; I wished to leave them to- 
gether' a moment for the last time and, as soon 
as I had closed the door behind me, in a per- 
fect rage of jealousy, I pressed my ear to the 
key-hole. 

“When shall I see you again?” he asked. 

"Never," replied Brigitte; "adieu, Henry.” 
She held out her hand. He bent over it, pressed 
it to his lips and I had barely time to slip into 
a corner as he passed out without seeing me. 

Alone with Brigitte, my heart sank within 
me. She was waiting for me, her shawl on her 
arm, and emotion plainly marked on her face. 
She had found the key she had been looking 
for and her desk was open. I returned and sat 
down near the fire. "Listen to me,” I said 
without daring to look at her; "I have been so 
culpable in my treatment of you that I ought 
to wait and suffer without a word of complaint. 
The change which has taken place in you has 
thrown me into such despair that I have not 
been able to refrain from asking you the cause; 
but to-day I ask nothing more. Does it cost 


304 


THE CONFESSION OF 


you an effort to depart? Tell me, and if so I 
am resigned. ” 

“Let us go, let us go!” she replied. 

“As you please, but be frank ; whatever blow 
I may receive, I ought not to ask whence it 
comes; I should submit without a murmur. 
But if I lose you, do not speak to me of hope, 
for God knows I will not survive the loss." 

She turned on me like a flash. 

“Speak to me of your love,” she said, “not 
of your grief. ” 

“ Very well, I love you more than life. Be- 
side my love, my grief is but a dream. Come 
with me to the end of the world, I will die or 
I will live with you.” 

With these words I advanced toward her; 
she turned pale and recoiled. She made a vain 
effort to force a smile on her contracted lips, 
and sitting down before her desk she said: 

"One moment; I have some papers here I 
want to burn.” 

She showed me the letters from N , tore 

them up and threw them into the fire; she then 
took out other papers which she re-read and then 
spread out on the table. They were bills of 
purchases she had made and some of them were 
still unpaid. While examining them she began 
to talk rapidly while her cheeks burned as 
though with fever. Then she asked my pardon for 
her obstinate silence and her conduct since our 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


305 


arrival. She gave evidence of more tenderness, 
more confidence than ever. She clapped her 
hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy 
journey; in short, she was all love, or at least 
apparently all love. I can not tell how I suf- 
fered at the sight of that factitious joy; there 
was in that grief which crazed her something 
more sad than tears and more bitter than re- 
proaches. I would have preferred to have her 
cold and indifferent rather than thus excited; 
it seemed to me a parody of our happiest mo- 
ments. There were the same words, the same 
woman, the same caresses; and that which, 
fifteen days before would have intoxicated me 
with love and happiness, repeated thus, filled 
me with horror. 

“Brigitte,” I suddenly inquired, “what secret 
are you concealing from me? If you love me, 
what horrible comedy is this you are playing 
before me?” 

“I!” said she almost offended. “What makes 
you think I am playing?” 

“What makes me think so? Tell me, my 
dear, that you have death in your soul and that 
you are suffering martyrdom. Behold my arms 
are ready to receive you ; lean your head on 
me and weep. Then I will take you away, 
perhaps; but in truth, not thus.” 

“Let us go, let us go!” she again repeated. 

“No, on my soul! No, not at present; no, 

30 


3o6 


THE CONFESSION OF 


not while there is between us a lie or a mask. 
I like unhappiness better than such cheerful- 
ness as yours. ” 

She was silent, astonished to see that I had 
not been deceived by her words and manner 
and that I saw through them both. 

“Why should we delude ourselves?” I con- 
tinued. “Have I fallen so low in your esteem 
that you can dissimulate before me? That un- 
fortunate journey, you think you are condemned 
to it, do you? Am I a tyrant, an absolute 
master? Am I an executioner who drags you 
to punishment? How much do you fear my 
wrath when you come before me with such 
mimicry? What terror impels you to lie thus?” 

“You are wrong,” she replied; “I beg of you, 
not a word more." 

“Why so little sincerity? If I am not your con- 
fidant, may I not at least be your friend? If I 
am denied all knowledge of the source of your 
tears, may I not at least see them flow? Have 
you not enough confidence' in me to believe 
that I will respect your sorrow? What have I 
done that I should be ignorant of it? Might 
not the remedy lay right there?" 

“No,” she replied, “you are wrong; you will 
achieve your own unhappiness as well as mine 
if you press me farther. Is it not enough that 
we are going away?” 

“And do you expect me to drag you away 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


307 


against your will? Is it not evident that you 
have consented reluctantly, and that you already 
begin to repent? Great God! What is it you 
are concealing from me? What is the use 
playing with words when your thoughts are as 
clear as that glass before which you stand? 
Would I not be the meanest of men to accept 
at your hands what is yielded with so much re- 
gret? And yet how can I refuse it? What can 
I do if you refuse to speak?” 

"No, I do not oppose you, you are mistaken; 
I love you, Octave ; cease tormenting me thus.” 

She threw so much tenderness into these 
words that I fell down my knees before her. 
Who could resist her glance and her voice? 

"My God!” I cried, "you love me, Brigitte? 
My dear mistress, you love me?” 

“Yes, I Jove you; yes, I belong to you; do 
with me what you will. I will follow you, let 
us go away together ; come, Octave, the car- 
riage is waiting.” 

She pressed my hand in hers, and kissed my 
forehead. ' 

"Yes, it must be, ” she murmured, "it must 
be.” 

"It must be," I repeated to myself. I arose. 

On the table there remained only one piece 
of paper that Brigitte was examining. She 
picked it up, then allowed it to drop to the 
floor. 


308 


THE CONFESSION OF 


“Is that all?” I asked. 

“Yes, that is all.” 

When I ordered the horses I had no idea 
that we would really go, I wished merely to make 
a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me 
to carry my plans farther than I at first in- 
tended. I opened the door. 

“It must be!” I said to myself. “It must 
be!” I repeated aloud. 

“What do you mean by that, Brigitte? What 
is there in those words that I do not under- 
stand? Explain yourself, or I will not go. 
Why must you love me?” 

She fell on the sofa and wrung her hands in 
grief. 

"Ah! Unhappy man!” she cried, "you will 
never know how to love! 

“Yes, I think you are right, but, before God, 
I know how to suffer. You must love me, must 
you not? Very well, then you m'ust answer 
me. Were I to lose you forever, were these 
walls to crumble over my head, I will not 
leave this spot until I have solved the mystery 
that has been torturing me for more than a 
month. Speak, or I will leave you. I may 
be a fool who destroys his own happiness, I 
may be demanding something that is not for 
me to possess, it may be that an explanation 
will separate us and raise before me an insur- 
mountable barrier, that it will render our tour, 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


309 


on which I have set my heart, impossible ; 
whatever it may cost you and me, you shall 
speak or I will renounce everything. ” 

“No, I will not speak.” 

“You will speak! Do you fondly imagine I 
am the dupe of your lies? When I see you 
change between morning and evening until you 
differ more from your natural self than does 
night from day, do you think I am deceived? 
When you give me as a cause some letters that 
are not worth the trouble of reading, do you 
imagine that I am to be put off with the first 
pretext that comes to hand because you do not 
choose to seek another? Is your face made of 
plaster that it is difficult to see what is passing 
in your heart? What is your opinion of me? 
I do not deceive myself as much as you sup- 
pose, and take care lest in default of words your 
silence discloses what you so obstinately con- 
ceal. ” 

“What do you imagine I am concealing?” 

"What do I imagine? You ask me that! Is 
it to brave me you ask such a question ! Do 
you think to make me desperate and thus get 
rid of me? Yes, I admit it, offended pride is 
capable of driving me to extremes. If I should 
explain myself freely, you would have at your 
service all feminine hypocrisy; you hope that 
I will accuse you, so that you can reply that 
such a woman as you does not stoop to justify 


THE CONFESSION OF 


3 ro 


herself. How skilfully the most guilty and 
treacherous of your sex contrive to use proud 
disdain as a shield ! Your great weapon is si- 
lence; I did not learn that yesterday. You wish 
to be insulted and you hold your tongue until it 
comes to that ; come, come, struggle against 
my heart; where yours beats you will find it; 
but do not struggle against my head, it is 
harder than iron, and it has served me as long 
as yours!” • 

"Poor boy!" murmured Brigitte; "you do not 
want to go?” 

"No, I shall not go except with my mistress 
and you are not that now. I have struggled, I 
have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long 
enough. It is time for day to break, I have 
loved long enough in the night. Yes or no, 
will you answer me?" 

"No.” 

"As you please; I will wait." 

I sat down on the other side of the room de- 
termined not to rise until I had learned what 
I wished to know. She appeared to be reflect- 
ing and walked back and forth before me. 

I followed her with an eager eye, while her 
silence gradually increased my anger. I was 
unwilling to have her perceive it and was un- 
decided what to do. I opened the window. 

"You may drive off,” I called to those below, 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


3ii 

“and I will see that you are paid. I shall not 
start to night." 

"Poor boy!" repeated Brigitte. I quietly 
closed the window and sat down as though 1 
had not heard her; but I was so furious with 
rage that I could hardly restrain myself. That 
cold silence, that negative force, exasperated 
me to the last point. Had I been really de- 
ceived and convinced of the guilt of a woman 
I loved, I could not have suffered more. As I 
had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I 
reflected that I must compel Brigitte to speak 
at any price. In vain I tried to think of some 
means of forcing liar to enlighten me; for such 
power I would have given all I possessed. 
What could I do or say? She sat there calm 
and unruffled looking at me with sadness. I 
heard the sound of the horses’ hoofs on the 
paving as the calash drew out of the court. I 
had merely to turn my hand to call them back, 
but it seemed to me that there was something 
irrevocable about their departure. I slipped 
the bolt on the door ; something whispered in 
my ear : "You are face to face with t|ie woman 
who must give you life or death." 

While thus buried in thought I tried to in- 
vent some expedient that would lead to the 
truth, I recalled one of Diderot’s romances in 
which a woman, jealous of her lover, resorted 
to a novel plan, for the purpose of clearing 


312 


THE CONFESSION OF 


away her doubts. She told him that she no 
longer loved him and that she wished to leave 
him. The Marquis des Arcis (the name of the 
lover) falls into the trap, and confesses that he 
himself has tired of the liaison. That piece 
of strategy, which I had read at too early an 
age, had struck me as being very skilful and 
the recollection of it at this moment made me 
smile. “Who knows?” said I to myself, “if I 
should try this with Brigitte, she might be de- 
ceived and tell me her secret.” 

My anger had become furious when the idea 
of resorting to such trickery occurred to me. 
Was it so difficult to make a woman speak in 
spite of herself? This woman was my mistress ; 
I must be very weak if I could not gain my 
point. I turned over on the sofa with an air 
of indifference. 

“Very well, my dear,” said I gaily, “this is 
not a time for confidences then?” 

She looked at me in astonishment. 

“And yet,” I continued, “we must some day 
come to the truth. Now I believe it would be 
well to begin at once ; that will make you con- 
fiding, and there is nothing like an understand- 
ing between friends.” 

Doubtless my face betrayed me as I spoke 
these words; Brigitte did not appear to under- 
stand and kept on walking up and down. 

“Do you know,” I resumed, “that we have 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


3i3 


been together now six months. The life we are 
leading together, is not one to be laughed at. 
You are young, I also ; if this kind of life 
should become distasteful to you, are you the 
woman to tell me of it? In truth if it were so, 
I would confess it to you frankly. And why 
not? Is it a crime to love? If not, it is not a 
crime to love less or to cease to love at all. 
Would it be astonishing if at our age we should 
feel the need of change?” 

She stopped me. 

“At our age!” said she. “Are you address- 
ing me? What comedy are you now playing 
yourself?” 

Blood mounted to my face. I seized her 
hand. “Sit down here,” I said, “and listen to 
me. ” 

“What is the use? It is not you who speak. ” 

I felt ashamed of my own strategy and aban- 
doned it. 

“Listen to me,” I repeated, “and come, I 
beg of you, sit down near me. If you wish to 
remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have 
to say.” 

“I am listening, what have you to say to 
me?” 

“If some one should say to me: ‘You are a 
coward!' I, who am twenty-two years of age 
and have fought on the field of honor, would 
throw the taunt back in the teeth of my ac- 


3i4 


THE CONFESSION OF 


cuser. Have I not within me the consciousness 
of what I am? It would be necessary for me 
to meet my accuser on the field, and play my 
life against his ; why? In order to prove that I 
am not a coward; otherwise the world would 
believe it. That single word demands that 
reply everytime it is spoken, and it matters 
not by whom.” 

"It is true; what is your meaning?” 

“Women do not fight; but as society is con- 
stituted there is no being, of whatever sex, who 
ought to submit to the indignity involved in 
an aspersion on all his or her past life, be 
that life regulated as by a pendulum. Reflect; 
who escapes that law? There are some, I ad- 
mit; but what happens? If it is a man, dis- 
honor; if it is a woman, what? forgiveness. 
Everyone who lives ought to give some evi- 
dence of life, some proof of existence. There 
is, then, for woman as well as for man, a time 
when an attack must be resented. If she is 
brave, she rises, announces that she is present 
and sits down again. A stroke of the sword is 
not for her. She must not only avenge herself, 
but she must forge her own arms. Some one 
suspects her; who? An outsider? She may 
hold him in contempt. Her lover whom she 
loves? If so it is her life that is in question, 
and she may not despise him." 

“Her only recourse is silence." 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


3i5 


"You are wrong, the lover who suspects her 
casts an aspersion on her entire life, I know 
it; her plea is her tears, her past life, her de- 
votion and her patience. What will happen if 
she remains silent? Her lover will lose her by 
her own act and time will justify her. Is not 
that your thought? 

"Perhaps; silence before all.” 

"Perhaps, you say? Assuredly I will lose 
you if you do not speak ; my resolution is 
made: I am going away alone.” 

"But, Octave — ” 

"But,” I cried, "time will justify you! Let 
us put an end to it; yes or no?” 

"Yes, I hope so.” 

"You hope so! Will you answer me defi- 
nitely? This is doubtless the last time you 
will have the opportunity. You tell me that 
you love me, and I believe it. I suspect you ; 
is it your intention to allow me to go away and 
rely on time to justify you?” 

"Of what do you suspect me?” 

"I do not choose to say, for I see that it 
would be useless. But, after all, misery for 
misery, at your leisure ; I am as well pleased. 
You deceive me, you love another; that is your 
secret and mine.” 

"Who is it?” she asked. 

"Smith.” 

She placed her hand on her lips and turned 


316 THE CONFESSION OF 

aside. I could say no more ; we were both pen- 
sive, our eyes fixed on the floor. 

“Listen to me,” she began with an effort. 
“I have suffered much, I call heaven to bear me 
witness that I would give my life for you. So 
long as the faintest gleam of hope remains, I 
am ready to suffer anything ; but, although I 
may rouse you anger in saying to you that I 
am a woman, I am nevertheless a woman, my 
friend. We can not go beyond the limits of 
human endurance. Beyond a certain point I 
will not answer for the consequences. All I can 
do at this moment is to get down on my knees 
before you and beseech you not to go away.” 

She knelt down as she spoke. I arose. 

“Fool that I am!” I muttered bitterly, “fool to 
try to get the truth from a woman ! He who 
undertakes such a task will earn naught but 
derision and will deserve it! Truth! Only he 
who sorts with chamber-maids knows it, only 
he who steals to their pillow and listens to the 
unconscious utterance of a dream, hears it. He 
alone knows itwho makes a woman of himself 
and initiates himself into the secrets of her cult 
of inconstancy! But man who asks for it openly, 
he who opens a loyal hand to receive that fright- 
ful alms, he will never obtain it ! They are on 
guard with him; for reply he receives a shrug 
of the shoulders, and, if he rouses himself in 
his impatience, they rise in righteous indigna- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


3i7 


tion like an outraged vestal, while there falls 
from their lips the great feminine oracle that 
suspicion destroys love, and they refuse to par- 
don an accusation which they are unable to 
meet. Ah! just God! How weary I am ! When 
will all this cease?” 

“Whenever you please,” said she coldly, “I 
am as tired of it as you.” 

“At this very moment; I leave you forever, 
and may time justify you! Time! Time! O! 
what a cold lover ! remember this adieu. Time! 
and thy beauty, and thy love, and thy happi- 
ness, where will they be? Is it thus, without 
regret, you allow me to go? Ah! the day when 
the jealous lover will know that he has been 
unjust, the day when he shall see proofs, he 
will understand what a heart he has wounded, 
is it not so? He will bewail his shame, he 
will know neither joy nor sleep ; he will live 
only in the memory of the time when he might 
have been happy. But, on that day, his proud 
mistress will turn pale as she sees herself 
avenged ; she will say to herself : Tf I had 
only done it sooner!’ And believe me, if she 
loves him, pride will not console her.” ^ 

I tried to be calm but I was no longer master 
of myself, and I began to pace the floor as she 
had done. There are certain glances that re- 
semble the clashing of drawn swords ; such 
glances, Brigitte and I exchanged at that mo- 


3 i 8 THE CONFESSION OF 

ment. I looked at her as the prisoner looks at 
the door of his dungeon. In order to break the 
seal on her lips and force her to speak I would 
give my life and hers. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What 
do you wish me to tell you?” 

“What you have on your heart. Are you 
cruel enough to make me repeat it?” 

“And you, you,” she cried, “are you not a 
hundred times more cruel? Ah! fool, as you 
say, who would know the truth! Fool that I 
would be if I expected you to believe it! You 
would know my secret, and my secret is that 
I love you. Fool that I am! you will seek 
another. That pallor of which you are the 
cause, you accuse it, you question it. Like a 
fool I have tried to suffer in silence, to conse- 
crate to you my resignation ; I have tried to 
conceal my tears ; you have played the spy, and 
you have counted them as witnesses against 
me. Fool that I am! I have thought of cross- 
ing seas, of exiling myself from France with 
you, of dying far from all who have loved me, 
leaning for sole support on a heart that doubts 
me. Fool that I am! I thought that truth had 
a glance, an accent, that could not be mistaken, 
that would be respected! Ah! when I think 
of it, tears choke me. Why, if it must ever be 
thus, induce me to take a step that will for- 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


3i9 


ever destroy my peace! My head is confused, 
I do not know where I am!” 

She leaned on me weeping. 

“Fool! Fool!” she repeated, in a heart-rend- 
ing voice. 

“And what is it you ask?” she continued, 
“what can I do to meet those suspicions that 
are ever born anew, that alter with your moods? 
I must justify myself, you say ! For what? For 
loving, for dying, for despairing? And if I as- 
sume a forced cheerfulness, even that cheerful- 
ness offends you. I sacrifice everything to fol- 
low you and you have not gone a league before 
you look back. Always, everywhere, whatever 
I may do, insults and anger! Ah! dear child, 
if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me, 
what suffering I endure in seeing my simplest 
words thus taken up and hurled back at me 
with suspicion and sarcasm! By that course 
you deprive yourself of the only happiness 
there is in the world — perfect love. You kill 
all delicate and lofty sentiment in the hearts 
of those who love you ; soon you will believe 
in nothing except the material and the gross ; 
of love there will remain for you only that 
which is visible and can be touched with the 
finger. You are young, Octave, and you have 
still along life before you ; you will have other 
mistresses. Yes, as you say, pride is a little 
thing and it is not to it I look for consolation; 


320 


THE CONFESSION OF 


but God wills that one of your tears shall one 
day pay me for those which I now shed for 
you !” 

She arose. 

“Must it be said? Must you know that for 
six months I have not sought repose without 
repeating to myself that it was all in vain, that 
you would never be cured ; that I have never 
risen in the morning without saying thatanother 
effort must be made ; that after every word you 
have spoken I have felt that I ought to leave 
you, and that you have not given me a caress 
that I would rather die than endure ; that, day 
by day minute by minute, hesitating between 
hope and fear, I have vainly tried to conquer 
either my love or my grief; that, when I opened 
my heart to you, you pierced it with a mocking 
glance, and that, when I closed it, it seemed 
to me I felt within it a treasure that none but 
you could dispense? Shall I speak of all the 
fraility and all the mysteries which seem puerile 
to those who do not respect them? Shall I tell 
you that when you left me in anger 1 shut my- 
self up to read your first letters ; that there is a 
favorite waltz that I never played in vain when 
I felt too keenly the suffering caused by your 
presence? Ah! wretch that I am ! How dearly 
all these unnumbered tears, all these follies 
so sweet to the feeble, are purchased ! Weep 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


321 


now; not even this punishment, this sorrow, 
will avail you. ” 

I tried to interrupt her. 

“Allow me to continue,” she said, "the time 
has come when I must speak. Let us see, 
why do you doubt me? For six months, in 
thought, in body, and in soul, I have belonged 
to no one but you. Of what do you dare sus- 
pect me? Do you wish to set out for Switzer- 
land? I am ready, as you see. Do you think 
you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will 
sign and you will direct. What are we doing? 
Where are we going? Let us decide. Are we 
not always together? Very well, then why 
would you leave me? I can not be near you 
and separated from you at the same moment. 
It is necessary to have confidence in those we 
love. Love is either good or bad : if good, we 
must believe in it ; if evil, we must cure our- 
selves of it. All this, you see, is a game we 
are playing ; but our hearts and our lives are 
the stakes, and it is horrible! Do you wish to 
die? That would perhaps be better. Who am 
I that you should doubt me?" 

She stopped before the glass. 

"Who am I?” she repeated, "who am I? 
Think of it. Look at this face of mine.” 

“Doubt thee!” she cried, addressing her own 
image; "poor, pale face, thou art suspected! 
poor thin cheeks, poor tired eyes, thou and thy 

2J 


322 


THE CONFESSION OF 


tears are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to 
thy suffering; let those kisses that have wasted 
thee, close thy lids! Descend into the cold 
earth, poor trembling body that can no longer 
support its own weight. When thou art there, 
perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt be- 
lieves in death. O, sorrowful spectre ! On the 
banks of what stream wilt thou wander and 
groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dream- 
est of a long journey and thou hast one foot in 
the grave! Die! God is thy witness that thou 
hast tried to love. Ah ! what wealth of love 
has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what 
dreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast 
drunk! What evil hast thou committed that 
there should be placed in thy breast a fever 
that consumes! What fury animates that blind 
creature who pushes thee into the grave with 
his foot, while his lips speak to thee of love? 
What will become of you if you live? Is it not 
time? Is it not enough? What proof canst 
thou give that will satisfy when thou, poor 
living proof, art not believed? To what torture 
canst thou submit that thou hast not already 
endured? By what torments, what sacrifices, 
wilt thou appease insatiable love? Thou wilt 
be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite 
laughter; thou wilt vainly seek a deserted street 
to avoid the finger of scorn. Thou wilt lose all 
shame and even that appearance of virtue which 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


323 


has been so dear to you; and the man for whom 
you have disgraced yourself will be the first 
to punish you. He will reproach you for living 
for him alone, for braving the world for him, 
and while thy own friends are whispering about 
thee, he will listen to assure himself that no 
word of pity is spoken ; he will accuse thee of 
deceiving him if another hand even then press- 
es thine, and if, in the desert of thy life, thou 
findest some one who can spare thee a word of 
pity in passing. O, God! dost thou remember 
a day when a wreath of roses was placed on 
my head? Was it this brow on which that 
crown rested? Ah! the hand that hung it on 
the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, 
to dust! O, my valley! O, my old aunt, who 
now sleeps in peace! O, my lindens, my little 
white goat, my dear peasants who loved me so 
much ! You remember when I was happy, 
proud, and respected? Who threw in my path 
that stranger who took me away from all this? 
Who gave him the right to enter my life? Ah! 
wretch! why didst thou turn the first day he 
followed you? Why didst thou receive him as 
a brother? Why didst thou open thy door, 
and why didst thou hold out thy hand? Octave, 
Octave, why have you loved me if all is to end 
thus!” 

She was about to faint as I led her to a chair 
where she sank down and her head fell on my 


324 


THE CONFESSION OF 


shoulder. The terrible effort she had made in 
speaking to me so bitterly had broken her 
down. Instead of an outraged woman I found 
now only a suffering child. Her eyes closed 
and she was motionless. 

When she regained consciousness she com- 
plained of extreme languor, and begged to be 
left alone that she might rest. She could hardly 
walk ; I carried her gently to her room and 
placed her on the bed. There was no mark of 
suffering on her face : she was resting from her 
sorrow as from great fatigue and seemed not 
even to remember it. Her feeble and delicate 
body yielded without a struggle ; the strain had 
been too great. She held my hand in hers ; I 
kissed her ; our lips met in loving union, and 
after the cruel scene through which she had 
passed, she slept smilingly on my heart as on 
the first day. 


CHAPTER VI 

Brigitte slept. Silent, motionless, I sat near 
her. As a husbandman, when the storm has 
passed, counts the sheaves that remain in his 
devastated field, thus I began to estimate the 
evil I had done. 

The more I thought of it, the more irrepara- 
ble I felt it to be. Certain sorrows, by their 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


325 


very excess, warn us of their limits, and the 
more shame and remorse I experienced, the 
more I felt that after such a scene, nothing re- 
mained for us to do but to say adieu. What- 
ever courage Brigitte had shown, she had drunk 
to the dregs the bitter cup of her sad love : 
unless I wished to see her die I must give her re- 
pose. She had often addressed cruel reproaches 
to me and had, perhaps, on certain other 
occasions shown more anger than in this scene ; 
but what she had said this time was not dic-^ 
tated by offended pride, it was the truth, which, 
hidden closely in her heart, had broken it in 
escaping. Our present relations, and the fact 
that I had refused to go away with her, destroyed 
all hope; she desired to pardon me but she had 
not the power. This slumber even, this death- 
like sleep of one who could suffer no more, was 
conclusive evidence ; this sudden silence, the 
tenderness she had shown in the final moments, 
that pale face, and that kiss, confirmed me in 
the belief that all was over, and that I had 
broken forever whatever bond had united us. 
As surely as she slept now, as soon as I gave 
her cause for further suffering she would sleep 
in eternal rest. The clock struck and I felt that 
the last hour had carried away my life with hers. 

Unwilling to call any one, I lighted Brigitte’s 
lamp ; I watched its feeble flame and my 


326 


THE CONFESSION OF 


thoughts seemed to flicker in the darkness like 
its uncertain rays. 

Whatever I had said or done, the idea of los- 
ing Brigitte had never occurred to me up to this 
time. A hundred times I wished to leave her, 
but who has loved and is ready to say just what 
is in his heart? That was in times of despair 
or of anger. So long as I knew that she loved 
me, I was sure of loving her; stern necessity 
had just arisen between us for the first time. I 
experienced a dull languor and could distin- 
guish nothing clearly. What my mind under- 
stood, my soul recoiled from accepting. “Come, ” 
I said to myself, “I have desired it and I have 
done it; there is not the slightest hope that we 
can live together; I am unwilling to kill this 
woman so I have no alternative but leaving her. 
It is all over; I shall go away to-morrow.” 

And all the while I was thinking neither of 
my responsibility, nor of the past, nor future ; I 
thought neither of Smith nor his connection 
with the affair; I could not say who had led 
me there, or what I had done during the last 
hour. I looked at the walls of the room and 
thought that all I had to do was to wait until 
to-morrow and decide what carriage I would 
take. 

I remained for a long time in this strange 
calm. Just as the man who receives a thrust 
from a poignard feels at first only the cold 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


327 


steel ; when he has gone some distance on his 
way he becomes weak, his eyes start from their 
sockets and he asks what has happened. But 
drop by drop the blood flows, the ground under 
his feet becomes red, death comes ; the man, at 
his approach, shudders with horror and falls as 
though struck by a thunderbolt. Thus, ap- 
parently calm, I awaited the coming of misfor- 
tune ; I repeated in a low voice what Brigitte had 
said, and I placed near her all that I supposed 
she would need for the night ; then I looked at 
her, then went to the window and pressed my 
forehead against the pane peering out at a 
sombre and lowering sky; then I returned to 
the bedside. That I was going away to-mor- 
row was the only thought in my mind and little 
by little the word “depart” became intelligible 
to me. “Ah! God!” I suddenly cried, : ‘my poor 
mistress, I am going to lose you and I have not 
known how to love you!” 

I trembled at these words as though it had 
been another who had pronounced them ; they 
resounded through all my being as resounds 
the string of the harp that has been plucked 
to the point of breaking. In an instant two 
years of suffering traversed my heart, and after 
them as their consequence and as their last 
expression, the present seized me. How shall 
I describe such woe? By a single word, per- 
haps, for those who have loved. I had taken 


328 


THE CONFESSION OF 


Brigitte’s band, and, in a dream doubtless, she 
had pronounced my name. 

I arose, and went to my room ; a torrent of 
tears flowed from my eyes I held out my arms 
as though to seize the past which was escaping 
me. “Is it possible,” I repeated, “that I am 
going to lose you? I can love no one but you. 
What! you are going away? And forever? 
What! you, my life, my adored mistress, you 
flee me, I shall never see you more? Never! 
never!” I said aloud; and, addressing myself 
to the sleeping Brigitte as though she could 
hear me, I added: “Never, never; do not think 
of it ; I will never consent to it. And why so 
much pride? Are there no means of atoning 
for the offense I have committed? I beg of 
you let us seek some expiation. Have you 
not pardoned me a thousand times? But you 
love me, you will not be able to go, for cour- 
age will fail you. What shall we do?” 

A horrible madness seized me; I began to 
run here and there in search of some instru- 
ment of death. At last I fell on my knees and 
beat my head against the bed. Brigitte stirred 
and I remained quiet, fearing I would waken 
her. 

“Let her sleep until to-morrow,” I said to 
myself; “you have all night to watch her.” 

I resumed my place ; I was so frightened at 
the idea of waking Brigitte, that I scarcely 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


329 


dared breathe. Gradually I became more 
calm and less bitter tears began to course 
gently down my cheeks. Tenderness succeed- 
ed fury. I leaned over Brigitte and looked at 
her as though, for the last time, my good 
angel was urging me to grave on my soul the 
lines of that dear face! 

How pale she was! Her large eyes, sur- 
rounded by a bluish circle, were moist with 
tears ; her form, once so lithe, was bent as 
though under a burden ; her cheek, wasted and 
leaden, rested on a hand that was spare and 
feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of. 
that crown of thorns which is the diadem of 
resignation. I thought of the cottage. How 
young she was six months ago! How cheerful, 
how free, how careless! What had I done 
with all that? It seemed to me that a strange 
voice repeated an old romance that I had long 
since forgotten: 

Altra volta gieri biele, 

Blanch’ e rossa com’ un flore, 

Ma ora no. Non son piu biele 
Consumatis dal’ amore. 

My sorrow was too great, I sprang to my feet 
and once more began to walk the floor. “Yes,” 

I continued, “look at her ; think of those who 
are consumed by a grief that is not shared with 
another. The evils you endure others have 
suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to 


33 ° 


THE CONFESSION OF 


you. Think of those who have no mother, no 
relatives, no friends ; of those who seek and do 
not find, of those who love in vain, of those 
who die and are forgotten. Before thee, there 
on that bed, lies a being that nature, perchance, 
formed for thee. From the highest circles of 
intelligence to the deepest and most impenetra- 
ble mysteries of matter and of form, that soul 
and that body are thy brothers ; for six months 
thy mouth has not spoken, thy heart has not 
beat, without a responsive word and heart-beat 
from her; and that woman whom God has sent 
thee as He sends the rose to the field, is about 
to glide from thy heart. While rejoicing in 
each others presence, while the angels of eter- 
nal love were singing before you, you were 
farther apart than two exiles at the two ends of 
the earth. Look at her, but be silent. Thou 
hast still one night to see her, if thy sobs do 
not awaken her.” 

Little by little my thoughts mounted and 
became more sombre until I recoiled in terror. 

“To do evil! Such was the role imposed upon 
me by Providence! I, to do evil! I, to whom 
my conscience, even in the midst of my wildest 
follies, said that I was good! I whom a piti- 
less destiny was dragging swiftly toward the 
abyss and whom a secret horror unceasingly 
warned of the awful fate to come ! I, who, if 
I had shed blood with these hands, could yet 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


33i 


repeat that my heart was not guilty; that I was 
deceived, that it was not I who did it, but my 
destiny, my evil genius, some unknown being 
who dwelt within me, but who was not born 
there! I do evil! For six months I had been 
engaged in that task, not a day had passed that 
I had not worked at that impious occupation, 
and I had at that moment the proof before my 
eyes. The man who had loved Brigitte, who 
had offended her, then insulted her, then aban- 
doned her only to take her back again, trem- 
bling with fear, beset with suspicion, finally 
thrown on that bed of sorrow, where she now 
lay extended, was I!” 

I beat my breast, and, although looking at her, 
I could not believe it. I touched her as though 
to assure myself that it was not a dream. My 
face, as I saw it in the glass, regarded me with 
astonishment. Who was that creature who ap- 
peared before me bearing my features? Who 
was that pitiless man who blasphemed with my 
mouth and tortured with my hands? Was it he 
whom my mother called Octave? Was it he 
who, at fifteen, leaning over the crystal waters 
of a fountain, had a heart not less pure than 
they? I closed my eyes and thought of my 
childhood days. As a ray of light pierces a 
cloud, a gleam from the past pierced my heart. 

“No,” I mused, “I did not do that. These 
things are but an absurd dream.” 


332 


THE CONFESSION OF 


I recalled the time when I was ignorant of 
life, when I was taking my first steps in experi- 
ence. I remembered an old beggar who used 
to sit on a stone bench before the farm gate, 
to whom I was sometimes sent with the remains 
of our morning meal. Holding out his feeble, 
wrinkled hands he would bless me as he smiled 
upon me. I felt the morning wind blowing on 
my brow and a freshness as of the rose descend- 
ing from heaven into my soul. Then I opened 
my eyes and, by the light of the lamp, saw the 
reality before me. 

"And you do not believe yourself guilty?” I 
demanded with horror. "O ! novice of yesterday, 
how corrupt to-day! Because you weep, you 
fondly imagine yourself innocent? What you 
consider the evidence of your conscience is only 
remorse ; and what murderer does not experi- 
ence it? If your virtue cries out, is it not be- 
cause it feels the approach of death? O, wretch ! 
those far off voices that you hear groaning in 
your heart, do you think they are sobs? They 
are perhaps only the cry of the sea-mew, that 
funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence 
portends shipwreck. Who has ever told the 
story of the childhood of those who have died 
stained with human blood? They, also, have 
been good in their day; they sometimes bury 
their faces in their hands and think of those 
happy days. You do evil, and you repent? Nero 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


333 


did the same when he killed his mother. Who 
has told you that tears can wash away the stains 
of guilt? 

"And even if it were true that a part of your 
soul is not devoted to evil forever, what will 
you do with the other part that is not yours? 
You will touch with your left hand the wounds 
that you inflict with your right ; you will make 
a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your 
crimes ; you will strike, and like Brutus you 
will engrave on your sword the prattle of Plato! 
Into the heart of the being who opens her arms 
to you, you will plunge that blood-stained but 
repentant arm ; you will follow to the cemetery 
the victim of your passion, and you will plant 
on her grave the sterile flower of your pity ; 
you will say to those who see you : ‘What would 
you expect? I have learned how to kill, and 
observe that I already weep, learn that God made 
me better than you see me.’ You will speak of 
your youth and you will persuade yourself that 
heaven ought to pardon you, that your misfor- 
tunes are involuntary and you will implore 
sleepless nights to grant you a little repose. 

"But who knows? You are still young. The 
more you trust in your heart, the farther astray 
you will be lead by your pride. To-day you 
stand before the first ruin, you are going to 
leave on your route. If Brigitte dies to-mor- 
row you will weep on her tomb; where will you 


334 


THE CONFESSION OF 


go when you leave her? You will go away for 
three months perhaps, and you will travel in 
Italy; you will wrap your cloak about you like 
a splenetic Englishman, and you will say some 
beautiful morning, sitting in your inn with your 
glasses before you, that it is time to forget in 
order to live again. You who weep too late, 
take care lest you weep more than one day. Who 
knows? When the present which makes you 
shudder, shall have become the past, an old 
story, a confused memory, may it not happen 
some night of debauchery that you will over- 
turn your chair and recount, with a smile on your 
lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes? 
It is thus that one drinks away shame. You 
have begun by being good, you will become 
weak, and you will be become a monster. 

“My poor friend,” said I, from the bottom 
of my heart, “I have a word of advice for you, 
and it is this: I believe that you must die. 
While there is still some virtue left, profit by it 
in order that you may not become altogether 
bad ; while a woman you love lies there dying on 
that bed, and while you have a horror of yourself, 
strike the decisive blow; she still lives; that is 
enough ; do not attend her funeral obsequies 
for fear that on the morrow you will not be con- 
soled; turn the poignard against your own heart 
while that heart yet loves the God who made it. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


335 


Is it your youth that gives you pause? And 
would you spare those youthful locks? Never 
allow them to whiten if they are not white to- 
night. 

“And then what would you do in the world? 
If you go away, where will you go? What can 
you hope for if you remain? Ah! in looking 
at that woman you seem to have a treasure 
buried in your heart. It is not merely that 
you lose her, it is less what has been than what 
might have been. When the hands of the clock 
indicated such and such an hour, you might 
have been happy. If you suffer why do you not 
open your heart? If you love, why do you not 
say so? Why do you die of hunger clasping a 
priceless treasure in your hands? You have 
closed the door, you miser; you debate with 
yourself behind locks and bolts. Shake them 
for it was your hand that forged them. 0, 
fool! who have desired and have possessed your 
desire, you have not thought of God! You 
play with happiness as a child plays with a 
rattle, and you do not reflect how rare and fra- 
gile a thing you hold in your hands ; you treat 
it with disdain, you smile at it and you con- 
tinue to amuse yourself with it, forgetting how 
many prayers it has cost your good angel to 
preserve for you that shadow of daylight! Ah! 
if there is in heaven one who watches over you, 
what is he doing at this moment? He is seated 


336 


THE CONFESSION OF 


before an organ ; his wings are half-folded, his 
hands extended over the ivory keys; he begins 
an eternal hymn ; the hymn of love and immor- 
tal rest, but his wings droop, his head falls 
over the keys ; the angel of death has touched 
him on the shoulder, he disappears into im- 
mensity! 

“And you, at the age of twenty-two when a 
noble and exalted passion, when the strength 
of youth might perhaps have made something 
of you! When after so many sorrows and bit- 
ter disappointments, a youth so dissipated, you 
saw a better time shining in the future; when 
your life, consecrated to the object of your 
adoration, gave promise of new strength, at that 
moment the abyss yawns before you! You no 
longer experience vague desires, but real re- 
grets ; your heart is no longer hungry, it is 
broken ! And you hesitate? What do you ex- 
pect? Since she no longer cares for your life, 
it counts for nothing! Since she abandons you, 
abandon yourself! Let those who have loved 
you in your youth weep for you! They are not 
many. If you would live, you must not only 
forget love but you must deny that it exists; 
not only deny what there has been of good in 
you, but kill all that may be good in the future; 
for what will you do if you remember? Life for 
you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, 
you must choose between your soul and your 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


337 


body; you must kill one or the other. The 
memory of the good drives you to the evil, 
make a corpse of yourself unless you wish to 
become your own spectre. O, child, child ! die 
while you can! May tears be shed over thy 
grave!'’ 

I threw myself on the foot of the bed in such 
a frightful state of despair, that my reason fled 
and I no longer knew where I was or what I 
was doing. Brigitte sighed. 

My senses stirred within me. Was it grief 
or despair? I do not know. Suddenly a horri- 
ble idea occurred to me. 

“What!” I muttered, “leave that for another! 
Die, descend into the ground, while that bos- 
om heaves with the air of heaven? Just God! 
another hand than mine on that fine, trans- 
parent skin ! Another mouth on those lips, 
another love in that heart! Brigitte happy, 
loving, adored, and I in a corner of the cem- 
etery, crumbling into dust in a ditch! How 
long will it take her to forget me if I cease to 
exist to-morrow? How many tears will she 
shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks 
to her but will say that my death was a good 
thing, who will not hasten to console her, who 
will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps 
they will seek to distract her attention from 
her loss ; if memory haunts her, they will take 


338 


THE CONFESSION OF 


her away; if her love for me survives me, they 
will seek to cure her as though she had been 
poisoned; and she herself, who will perhaps at 
first say that she desires to follow me, will a 
month later turn aside to avoid the weeping- 
willow planted over my grave! How could it 
be otherwise? Who as beautiful as she, wastes 
life in idle regrets? If she should think of 
dying of grief that beautiful bosom would urge 
her to live, and her glass would persuade her ; 
and the day when her exhausted tears give 
place to the first smile, who will not congratu- 
late her on her recovery? When, after eight 
days of silence, she consents to hear my name 
pronounced in her presence, then she will speak 
of it herself as though to say: ‘Console me;’ 
then little by little she will no longer refuse 
to think of the past but will speak of it, and 
she will open her window some beautiful spring 
morning when the birds are singing in the gar- 
den ; she will become pensive and say: ‘I have 
loved !’ Who will be there at her side? Who 
will dare to tell her that she must continue to 
love? Ah! then I will be no more! You will 
listen to him, faithless one! You will blush 
as does the budding rose and the blood of youth 
will mount to your face. While saying that your 
heart is sealed, you will allow it to escape through 
that fresh aureole of beauty, each ray of which 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


339 


allures a kiss. How much they desire to be 
loved who say they love no more! And why 
should that astonish you? You are a woman; 
that body, that spotless bosom, you know what 
they are worth ; when you conceal them under 
your dress you do not believe, as do the virgins, 
that all are alike, and you know the price of 
your modesty. How can the woman who has 
been praised resolve to be praised no more? 
Does she think she is living when she remains 
in the shadow and there is silence round about 
her beauty? Her beauty itself is the admiring 
glance of her lover. No, no, there can be 
no doubt of it ; who has loved, can not live 
without love; who has seen death, clings to 
life. Brigitte loves me and will perhaps die 
of love; I will kill myself and another will 
have her. 

“Another, another!” I repeated, bending over 
her until my head touched her shoulder. “Is 
she not a widow? Has she not already seen 
death? Have not these little hands prepared the 
dead for burial? Her tears for the second will 
not flow as long as those shed for the first. 
Ah! God forgive me! While she sleeps why 
should I not kill her? If I should awaken her 
now and tell her that her hour had come and 
that we were going to die with a last kiss, she 
would consent. What does it matter? Is it 
certain that all does not end with that?” 


34 ° 


THE CONFESSION OF 


I found a knife on the table and I picked it 
up. 

“Fear, cowardice, superstition! What do they 
know about it who talk of something else be- 
yond? It is for the ignorant common people 
that a future life has been invented, but who 
really believes in it? What watcher in the 
cemetery has seen Death leave his tomb and hold 
consultation with a priest? In olden times 
there were phantoms; they are interdicted by 
the police in civilized cities and no cries are 
now heard issuing from the earth except from 
those buried in haste. Who has silenced death if 
it has ever spoken? Because funeral processions 
are no longer permitted to encumber our streets 
does the celestial spirit languish? To die, that 
is the final purpose, the end. God has estab- 
lished it, man discusses it; but over every door 
is written : ‘Do what thou wilt, thou shalt die.’ 
What will be said if I kill Brigitte? Neither 
of us will hear. In to-morrow’s journal would 

appear the intelligence that Octave de T , 

had killed his mistress, and the day after no 
one would speak of it. Who would follow us 
to the grave? No one who, upon returning to 
his home, could not enjoy a hearty dinner ; and 
when we were extended side by side in our 
narrow bed, the world could walk over our 
graves without disturbing us. Is it not true, 
my well-beloved, is it not true that it would 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


34i 


be well with us? It is a soft bed, that bed of 
earth; no suffering can reach us there; the oc- 
cupants of the neighboring tombs will not gossip 
about us; our bones will embrace in peace and 
without pride, for death is solace, and that 
which binds does not also separate. Why 
should annihiliation frighten thee, poor body, 
destined to corruption. Every hour that strikes 
drags thee on to thy doom, every step breaks 
the round on which thou hast just rested; thou 
art nourished by the dead ; the air of heaven 
weighs upon and crushes thee, the earth on 
which thou treadest attacts thee by the soles of 
thy feet. Down with thee! Why art thou af- 
frighted? Dost thou tremble at a word? Merely 
sa) 7 : ‘We will not live.’ Is not life a burden 
that we long to lay down? Why hesitate when 
it is merely a question of a little sooner or a 
little later? Matter is indestructible, and the 
physicists, we are told, grind to infinity the 
smallest speck of dust without being able to 
annihilate it. If matter is the property of 
chance, what harm can it do to change its form 
since it can not cease to be matter? Why 
should God care what form I have received and 
with what livery I invest my grief? Suffering 
lives in my brain; it belongs to me, I kill it; 
but my bones do not belong to me and I return 
them to Him who lent them to me : may some 
poet make a cup of my skull from which to 


342 


THE CONFESSION OF 


drink his new wine! What reproach can I in- 
cur and what harm can that reproach do me? 
What stern judge will tell me that I have done 
wrong? What does he know about it? Was he 
such as I? If every creature has his task to 
perform and if it is a crime to shirk it, what 
culprits are the babes who die on the nursed 
breast? Why should they be spared? Who 
will be instructed by the lessons which are 
taught after death? Must heaven be a desert 
in order that man may be punished for having 
lived? Is it not enough to have lived? I do 
not know who asked that question, unless it 
was Voltaire on his death-bed ; it is a cry of 
despair worthy of a helpless old atheist. But 
to what purpose? Why so many struggles? 
Who is there above us who delights in so much 
agony? Who amuses himself and whiles away 
an idle hour watching this spectacle of crea- 
tion always renewed and always dying, seeing 
the work of man’s hands rising, the grass grow- 
ing ; looking upon the planting of the seed and 
the fall of the thunderbolt ; beholding man 
walking about upon his earth until he meets 
the beckoning finger of death ; counting tears 
and watching them dry upon the cheek of pain ; 
noting the pure profile of love and the wrinkled 
face of age ; seeing hands stretched up to him 
in supplication, bodies prostrate before him, 
and not a blade of wheat more in the harvest! 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


343 


Who is it then who has made so much for the 
pleasure of knowing that it all amounts to noth- 
ing! The earth is dying; Herschell says it is 
of cold ; who holds in his hand the drop of 
condensed vapor and watches it as it dries up, 
as a fisher watches a grain of sand in his hand? 
That mighty law of attraction that suspends 
the world in space, torments it and con- 
sumes it in endless desire; every planet carries 
its load of misery and groans on its axle ; they 
call to each other across the abyss and each 
wonders which will stop first. God controls 
them ; they accomplish assiduously and eter- 
nally their appointed and useless task ; they 
whirl about, they suffer, they burn, they be- 
come extinct and they light up with new flame ; 
they descend and they reascend, they follow 
and yet they avoid each other, they interlace 
like rings ; they carry on their surface thousands 
of beings who are ceaselessly renewed ; the 
beings move about, cross each other’s paths, 
clasp each other for an hour, and then fall and 
others rise in their place; where life fails, life 
hastens to the spot ; where air is wanting, air 
rushes; no disorder, everything is regulated, 
marked out, written down in lines of gold and 
parables of fire, everything keeps step with the 
celestial music along the pitiless paths of life; 
and all for nothing! And we, poor nameless 
dreams, pale and sorrowful apparitions, help- 


344 


THE CONFESSION OF 


less ephemera, we who are animated by the 
breath of a second in order that death may 
exist, we exhaust ourselves with fatigue in order 
to prove ‘that we are living for a purpose, and 
that something indefinable is stirring within 
us. We hesitate to turn against our breasts a 
little piece of steel, or blow out our brains with 
a little instrument no larger than our hands; 
it seems to us that chaos would return again ; 
we have written and revised the laws both 
human and divine and we are afraid of our 
catechisms; we suffer thirty years without 
murmuring and imagine that we are struggling ; 
finally suffering becomes the stronger, we send 
a pinch of powder into the sanctuary of intelli- 
ence, and a flower pierces the soil above our 
grave. ” 

As I finished these words I directed the knife 
I held in my hand against Brigitte’s bosom. 
I was no longer master of myself, and in my 
delirious condition I know not what might 
have happened ; I threw back the bed-clothing 
to uncover the heart, when I discovered on her 
white bosom a little ebony crucifix. 

I recoiled, seized with sudden fear ; my hand 
relaxed, my weapon fell to the floor. It was 
Brigitte’s aunt who had given her that little 
crucifix on her deathbed. I did not remember 
ever having seen it before ; doubtless, at the 
moment of setting out she had suspended it 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


345 


about her neck as a preserving charm against 
the dangers of the journey. Suddenly I joined 
my hands and knelt on the floor. 

“O, Lord my God,” I said in trembling tones, 
“Lord, my God, thou art there!” 

Let those who do not believe in Christ read 
this page ; I no longer believed in him. Neither 
as a child, nor at school, nor as a man, have I 
frequented churches ; my religion, if I had any, 
had neither rite nor symbol, and I believed in 
a God without form, without a cult, and with- 
out revelation. Poisoned, from youth, by all 
the writings of the last century, I had sucked, 
at an early hour, the sterile milk of impiety. 
Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed 
my mouth against prayer, while my affrighted 
soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness. 
I was as though drunken or insensate when I 
saw that effigy of Christ on Brigitte’s bosom; 
while not believing in him myself I recoiled, 
knowing that she believed in him. It was not 
vain terror that arrested my hand. Who saw 
me? I was alone and it was night. Was it 
prejudice? What prevented me from hurling 
out of my sight that little piece of black wood? 
I could have thrown it into the fire but it was 
my weapon I threw there. Ah! what an ex- 
perience that was and still is for my soul ! 
What miserable wretches are men who mock 
at that which can save a human being! What 


34 6 


THE CONFESSION OF 


matters the name, the form, the belief? Is not 
all that is good sacred? How dare any one 
touch God? 

As at a glance from the sun the snows descend 
the mountains and the glaciers that threatened 
heaven melt into streams in the valley, so there 
descended into mv heart a stream that over- 
flowed its banks. Repentance is a pure in- 
cense; it exhaled from all my suffering. Al- 
though I had almost committed a crime when 
my hand was arrested, I felt that my heart was 
innocent. In an instant calm, self possession, 
reason returned ; I again approached the bed ; 
I leaned over my idol and kissed the crucifix. 

“Sleep in peace,” I said to her, “God watches 
over you! While your lips were parting in a 
smile, you were in greater danger than you have 
ever known before. But the hand that threat- 
ened you will harm no one; I swear by the faith 
you profess I will not kill either you or myself! 
I am a fool, a madman, a child who thinks 
himself a man. God be “praised! You are 
young and beautiful. You live and you will 
forget me. You will recover from the evil I 
have done you, if you can forgive me. Sleep 
in peace -until day, Brigitte, and then decide 
our fate; whatever sentence you pronounce I 
will submit without complaint. And thou, 
Lord, who hast saved me, grant me pardon. 
I was born in an impious century, and I have 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


347 


many crimes to expiate* Thou Son of God 
whom men forget, I have not been taught to 
love Thee. I have never worshipped in Thy 
temples, but I thank heaven that where I find 
Thee, I tremble and bow in reverence. I have 
at least kissed with my lips a heart that is full 
of Thee. Protect that heart so long as life lasts; 
dwell within it, Thou Holy One; a poor unfor- 
tunate has been brave enough to defy death at the 
sight of Thy suffering and Thy death ; though 
impious. Thou hast saved him from evil ; if he 
had believed, Thou wouidst have consoled him. 
Pardon those who have made him incredulous 
since Thou hast made him repentant ; pardon 
those who blaspheme! When they were in de- 
pair they did not see Thee! Human joys 
are a mockery ; they are scornful and pitiless ; 
O, Lord! the happy of this world think they 
have no need of Thee! Pardon them. Although 
their pride may outrage Thee, they will be, 
sooner or later, baptized in tears ; grant that 
they may cease to belieye in any other shelter 
from the tempest than Thy love, and spare them 
the severe lessons of unhappiness. Our wis- 
dom and skepticism are in our hands but chil- 
dren’s toys; forgive us for dreaming that 
we can defy Thee, Thou who smilest at 
Golgotha. The worst result of all our vain 
misery is that it tempts us to forget Thee. 
But Thou knowest that it is all but a shadow 


348 


THE CONFESSION OF 


which a glance from Thee can dissipate. Hast 
not Thou Thyself been a man? It was sorrow 
that made Thee God; sorrow is an instrument 
of torture by which Thou hast mounted to the 
very throne of God, Thy Father, and it is sor- 
row that leads us to Thee as it led Thee to Thy 
Father; we came to Thee with our crown of 
thorns and kneel before Thy mercy-seat; we 
touch Thy bleeding feet with our blood stained 
hands, and Thou hast suffered martyrdom for 
being loved by the unfortunate.” 

The first rays of dawn began to appear: man 
and nature were rousing themselves from sleep 
and the air was filled with the confusion of 
distant sounds. Weak and exhausted I was 
about to leave Brigitte, and seek a little repose. 
As I was passing out of the room, a dress 
thrown on a chair slipped to the floor near me, 
and in its folds I spied a piece of paper. I 
picked it up; it was a letter, and I recognized 
Brigitte’s hand. The envelopd was not sealed 
I opened it and read as follows : 

23 December, 18 

“When you receive this letter I shall be far 
away from you, and shall perhaps never see you 
again. My destiny is bound up with that of a 
man for whom I have sacrificed everything ; he 
can not live without me and I am going to try 
to die for him. I love you; adieu, and pity 
us. " 

I turned the letter over when I had read it, 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


349 


and saw that it was addressed to “M. Henri 
Smith, N , poste rest ante. 


CHAPTER VII 

On the morrow, a clear December day, a young 
man and a woman who rested ' on his arm, 
passed through the garden of the Palais-Royal. 
They entered a jeweler’s store where they chose 
two similar rings which they smilingly ex- 
changed. After a short walk they took breakfast 
at the Frbres-Provencaux , in one of those little 
rooms which are, all things considered, one of 
the most beautiful spots in the world. There, 
when the gargon had left them, they sat near 
the windows hand in hand. The young man 
was in traveling dress ; to see the joy which 
shone on his face, one would have taken him 
for a young husband showing his young wife 
the beauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His 
happiness was calm and subdued, as true hap- 
piness always is. The experienced would have 
recognized in him the youth who merges into 
manhood. From time to time he looked up at 
the sky, then at his companion, and tears 
glittered in his eyes, but he heeded them not, 
but smiled as he wept. The woman was pale 
and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. 
On her face were traces of sorrow which she 


35 ° 


THE CONFESSION OF 


could not conceal, although evidently touched 
by the exalted joy of her companion. When 
he smiled, she smiled too, but never alone ; 
when he spoke, she replied and she ate what he 
served her; but there was about her a silence 
which was only broken at his instance. In her 
languor could be clearly distinguished that gen- 
tleness of soul, that lethargy of the weaker of 
two beings who love, one of whom exists only 
in the other and responds to him as does the 
echo. The young man was conscious of it and 
seemed proud of it and grateful for it ; but it 
could be seen even by his pride that his hap- 
piness was new to him. When the woman be- 
came sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with 
his glance ; but he could not always succeed and 
seemed troubled himself. That mingling of 
strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of 
anxiety and serenity could not have been under- 
stood by an indifferent spectator ; at times they 
appeared the most happy of living creatures, 
and the next moment the most unhappy ; but 
although ignorant of their secret, one would have 
felt that they were suffering together, and, 
whatever their mysterious trouble, it could be 
seen that they had placed on their sorrow a 
seal more powerful than love itself — friendship. 
While their hands were clasped their glances 
were chaste; although they were alone they 
spoke in low tones. As though overcome by 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


35 T 


their feelings they sat face to face, although 
their lips did not touch. They looked at each 
other tenderly and solemnly. When the clock 
struck one, the woman heaved a sigh and said : 

"Octave, are you sure of yourself?” 

"Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I will suffer 
much, a long time, perhaps forever ; but we 
will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God.” 

"Octave, Octave,” repeated the woman, "are 
you sure you are not deceiving yourself?” 

"I do not believe we can forget each other ; 
but I believe that we can forgive and that is 
what I desire even at the price of separation.” 

"Why could we not meet again? Why not 
some day — you are so young!” 

Then she added with a smile. 

"We could see each other without danger.” 

"No, my friend, for you must know that I 
could never see you again without loving you. 
May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of 
you! Smith is brave, good and honest, but 
however much you may love him, you see very 
well that you still love me, for if I should decide 
to remain, or to take you away with me, you 
would consent. ” 

"It is true,” replied the woman. 

"True! true!” repeated the young man, look- 
ing into her eyes with all his soul. "Is it true 
that if I wished it you would go with me?” 

Then he continued softly: 


352 


THE CONFESSION OF 


"That is the reason I must never see you 
again. There are certain loves in life that 
overturn the head, the senses, the mind, the 
heart ; there is among them all but one that 
does not disturb, that penetrates, and that dies 
only with the being in which it has taken root.” 

“But you will write to me?” 

"Yes, at first, for what I have to suffer is so 
keen that the absence of the habitual object of 
my love would kill me. When I was unknown 
to you, I gradually approached closer and closer 
to you until — but let us not go into the past. 
Little by little my letters will become less fre- 
quent until they cease altogether. I will thus 
descend the hill that I have been climbing for 
the past year. When one stands before a fresh 
grave over which are engraved two cherished 
names, one experiences a mysterious sense of 
grief, which causes tears to trickle down one’s 
cheeks ; it is thus that I wish to remember hav- 
ing once lived." 

At these words the woman threw herself on 
the couch and burst into tears. The young man 
wept with her, but he did not move and seemed 
anxious to appear unconscious of her emotion. 
When her tears ceased to flow, he approached 
her, took her hand in his and kissed it. 

"Believe me,” said he, "to be loved by you, 
whatever the name of the place I occupy in 
your heart, will give me strength and courage. 


A CHILD OF THE CENTURY 


353 


Rest assured, Brigitte, no one will ever under- 
stand you better than I ; another will love you 
more worthily, no one will love you more truly. 
Another will be considerate of those feelings 
that I offend, he will surround you with his 
love; you will have a better lover, you will not 
have a better brother. Give me your hand and 
let the world laugh at a word that it does not 
understand: Let us be friends, and adieu for- 
ever. Before we became such intimate friends 
there was something within that told us that 
we were destined to mingle our lives. Let that 
part of us which is still joined in God’s sight 
never know that we have parted upon earth; 
let not the paltry chance of a moment undo the 
union of our eternal happiness!” 

He held the woman’s hand; she arose, tears 
streaming from her eyes, and, stepping up to 
the mirror with a strange smile on her face, 
she cut from her head a long tress of hair; then 
she looked at herself thus disfigured and de- 
prived of a part of her beautiful crown, and 
gave it to her lover. 

The clock struck again ; it was time to go ; 
when they passed out they seemed as joyful as 
when they entered. 

"What a beautiful sun,” said the young man. 

“And a beautiful day,” said Brigitte, “the 
memory of which shall never fade.” 

They hastened away and disappeared in the 


354 


THE CONFESSION OF 


crowd. A moment later a carriage passed over 
a little hill behind Fontainebleau. The young 
man was the only occupant ; he looked for the 
last time upon his native town as it disappeared 
in the distance and thanked God that, of the 
three beings who had suffered through his fault, 
there remained but one of them still unhappy. 



92 
















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